tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22746809130085386382017-09-05T18:55:10.210-07:00I Blame Enjoli!Yes...I can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan, but damn it! You had better at least help with the dishes!Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-69701696788135617692016-08-13T00:35:00.000-07:002016-08-13T00:35:19.923-07:00He was not my son...He was not my son. My sons are here with me, safe and sound. I know this. Except when I close my eyes, it is him.<br /><br />It's my son who climbs all those stairs in the excitement to ride the tallest water slide in the world. It is my son who holds his brothers hand or high fives him because they are so excited. It is my son who negotiates with the slide attendant to try to ride together only to find out that because of the weight requirements they have to split up. It is my son who says he is a little scared so his brother tells him not to be afraid that he will go down first and wait for him at the bottom. It is my son who climbs in the front of the raft and with all the excitement in the world sets off on this slope. It is my son who has this horrible unspeakable and utterly unimaginable thing happen to his body on the way down. It is my son who lays lifeless at the end while his brother nearby is screaming in horror. He is not my son.... except when I lie in bed at night... he is.<br /><br />It's not even fair of me to be feeling this way. It's so selfish in fact. This feeling that does not quite have a name. It is like anguish, sadness, hopelessness, heartache. It feels like anxiety and unwarranted fear and grief.<br /><br />It feels like horror.<br /><br />I can't stop myself from thinking about it.<br /><br />My daughter went to that park three days after it opened back up and there was a large red stain all the way down the slide, after the second hill. There in the open, glaring. How callous of them. How could they not have put up a tarp to hide it? To hide the place where this horrific thing took place.<br /><br />It was not my son. Except when I close my eyes, it is my son. It is all of our sons. On any day, any combination of things that we do could put us in harms way.&nbsp; On a car ride, on a bike to his friends house, on a playground at school. What an intricate web of things had to happen for it to be this boy, on this day at precisely this moment. If one person cuts in front of he and his brother it does not happen this way. If he stops to go pee first before climbing the stairs, this does not happen. If the ride just before took two seconds longer, this does not happen. It all came together just so... just so that this awful thing happened on a day that he should have remembered forever as one of the best of his life.<br /><br />His parents trusted him to go off with his big brother, they had younger kids to watch out for. They probably said things like "Have fun." and "Be Safe." and "Stay with your brother."&nbsp; They had every reason to think things were perfectly fine. Normal. Safe. His mother must be going over and over in her head all the things leading up to it and whether or not she could have changed the outcome.<br /><br />She could not have. It is not her fault. <br /><br />His mother, oh god. I want to go to her and hold her head in my lap and tell her to cry for as long as she wants to. A day, a week, a month, a lifetime. Cry until she has no more tears. It won't matter because that kind of pain doesn't fade with anything but decades. I want to help her clean her house and do laundry and take care of her other boys so that she can just lie in her bed until she feels like she can stand up again.<br /><br />He was not my son, he was her son.<br /><br />I can't even fathom her pain. I want to tell her I'm sorry over and over while petting her hair while she cries. I'm so sorry.<br /><br />If my heart hurts like this, imagine how she must feel. If I can't shake this dread, imagine how she must feel.<br /><br />It was not my son, but my heart bleeds for her. She lost hers.<br /><br />I'm so sorry.Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-66428426893629243842016-07-19T23:00:00.002-07:002016-07-19T23:02:07.836-07:00Anything less than bliss is a waste of time...This is a saying I heard once, from some stupid movie. I think it had Ethan Hawke in it. The movie was worthless but I loved the saying. I grasped on to it. In my 20's it was my mantra. It's a nice thought but I don't think it is real or possible or even what we should strive for. It's setting ourselves up for failure really. Later in my 30's I read an article. When Sandy Hook happened I read this article about one of the victims mothers. Noah Pozner his name was, the boy was Noah. His mother, she said she was his mother for the good and the bad. She said had to be there to identify his body no matter how horrific it was. I thought- we must be here for all of it. We must live and embrace the good and the bad and the horrific. The article tore me to shreds on the inside. It also made me grow. <br /><br />Rick and I have been talking lately about happiness. It's a topic, that since I gave birth 12 years ago has been heavily on my mind. Immediately after I gave birth I just kept thinking when does it happen? When does the pure happiness come? Like a movie where the mom just stares so lovingly at the baby and seems blissful. It didn't happen like that for me. What is happiness? I thought about how to have it, how to keep it, how to define it, what causes it? I have come to some pretty substantial conclusions. First one is that Happiness is not a constant state of being but rather a destination that you arrive at an leave on a regular basis. I don't feel like you can be consonantly happy unless you are on drugs or are mentally ill or lying about it. (I'm only half joking..) Second one is that Happiness is a goal. It's a place we strive to be. I don't feel like it's a place we are allowed to live, only to visit. The key is finding ways to visit often and to stay as long as you can.<br /><br />I also feel like there are three levels of this happiness.<br /><br />Level #1 is "Contentment" - which is where you are feeling good, nothing is upsetting you, nothing bothering you, you have a smile on your face, you are content. It's sort of like floating. Or maybe try to imagine you're on a nice stroll in the park and you see like a turtle or a cool butterfly and your kids are playing and no arguments are happening and there is a breeze and your husband leans over and says, "You look like you've lost weight and oh by the way all the bills are paid for this month." You feel extremely content. <br /><br />Level #2 is "Happiness"- which is like more intense. Like imagine that same walk and you see a colony of monarchs in that park. Your kids are not only not arguing but are really being ultra kind to one another and helping each other see the beauty in life and there is not only a breeze but it smells of lilacs and oranges and your husband who looks surprisingly like Brad Pitt says, "Damn baby you look like you've lost 50 pounds, and oh by the way my parents died and left us a comfortable inheritance so the bills are paid and we are vacationing next week." You feel so happy!<br /><br />Level #3 is "Bliss"- far more intense still and much more of a rare occurrence. Bliss is not just a park but like the Tuileries in Paris (with no tiny Eiffel Tower salesmen), and you see like every tree is filled with a menagerie of butterflies of all kinds and colors. Your kids are laughing and holding hands and turning back to look at you waving grade cards with all A's on them. The lilac orange breeze is blowing through your hair which is totally perfect today and you are eating macaroons and gelato which are totally fat free and calorie free as well but still somehow taste great. Then your husband who looks almost exactly like Chris Hemsworth leans over and says, (in and Australian accent because duhhhh..) "I want you with the passion of a thousand volcanoes, you perfect woman, and by the way we won the power ball and right now it's 336&nbsp; million so after taxes we are fucking loaded, and my parents died." You feel freaking blissful!!<br /><br />These are my three stages. It's only a theory but at 44 it's where I'm at and I think it's a pretty accurate theory. So I'm going with it. <br /><br />I spend most of my time trying to be in one of these states. I think about the things that I do and the people whom I surround myself with. Do they bring me to these places or do they take me away from them. I spend time really being present, acknowledging when I am feeling these things and when I am not. Now we all have to work, we have to pay bills, and drive in traffic, and shower, and grocery shop and these things are utilitarian and we just have to do them. We all have to attend funerals and experience loss. These things are a part of life. And honestly, ask yourself this, If you did not know extreme unhappiness would you recognize bliss? Would you appreciate bliss? It's like Christmas. It can't be Christmas every day. Sometimes it just has to be Tuesday.<br /><br />I am focused on the things that we get to chose to do. Like in our "free time" ( I hate that saying.)&nbsp; Like in the evening or on the weekend or on a day off, what makes me feel happy? I have narrowed it to a few things. Water related activities make me happy like swimming, dipping my feet in the ocean, reading near a lake, listening to waves crashing. My immediate family makes me so happy. My kids laughing, saying funny silly things, watching them be loving to one another, seeing them face life and come out on top, just talking to them. When they call me "mom", it makes my heart feel full and happy. Lying next to my husbands warm body at night. When I make him laugh. I love his laugh and when I cause his laughter, I feel supremely proud of myself. These things bring me happiness. Kittens make me happy, no explanation needed. Traveling, and seeing new places makes me happy. Something that I have never laid eyes on, something new to me, something profound changes me and makes me feel happy. Poetry and really beautiful song lyrics make me happy, when a person crafts words into emotions I am drawn in a left feeling such joy. Modern art makes me happy. Rick says he doesn't understand it, but I have to tell you that when there was a giant fried egg on the median of Roe Blvd. I loved it. That sardine can piece in the Kemper makes me happy.&nbsp; Seeing modern art or gorilla art always makes me smile. Flowers make me happy. It's inexplicable really. Sunflowers bright and big and yellow, lilacs sweet smelling, roses beautiful and thorny, daises so youthful and innocent, clean looking pale hydrangeas all make me happy. My husband brings me these yellow roses with orange brims for every holiday. They were the roses from our wedding. I love that he remembers and it makes me so happy.<br /><br />I'm writing this because, this weekend I was totally aware that I was in a state of bliss that might be one of the longest lasting periods of bliss I've ever had. My family went rafting down the Niangua river. We slept in a tiny cabin, close quarters. All cozy together we made dinner over a fire and to kids all slept in one room except when Finn had that bad dream and came to sleep with Rick and I. Even that made me happy- I'm greedy over those moments when they NEED you. Not just want you to be there but really need you to be there.&nbsp; I felt carefree and singular in an odd way, as we were five but one as well. We worked together to make the raft float straight down the river. We laughed a lot, we talked to each other. We floated in the water down the river in the current like a roller coaster ride. My kids were laughing. The water was cool and perfect, the sun was warm, the birds and bugs were a chorus and all of it was for us. I sat on the edge of the raft with one foot in the sweet water and just felt bliss. These people are mine and they bring me so much happiness.<br /><br />I don't live in a state of happiness but I try every day to get back to that place; to find the things that bring me there and to focus on them. That is what happiness is- that is my theory anyway.&nbsp; Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-74914528724899027762015-07-16T20:45:00.000-07:002015-07-16T22:33:20.113-07:00This is the Scenic Route -written with all the love in my heart for my handsome and individual sonshine Jude Kohlmeyer&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; So I've said it before and I'll say it a thousand times more. It's all in how you look at things. It's all about PERSPECTIVE.<br /><br /><br />I was reading a book to my son Jude. He is so beautiful and full hearted, but the is definitely the one who challenges me day in and day out. I was reading him a book called, "The Phantom Tollbooth." In all my years, and all my books, and all my college, and all my "English major" studies, How have I never read this book? This book is the story of Jude. I swear it. I thought it the whole time I was reading it, to the point of actually feeling great AWE at times. Milo is Jude, Jude is Milo. The boy who wants to take the short cut and misses the exit. The boy who (hopefully) eventually learns the lessons that the road of life has for you. I am not sure Jude really got it. But I do promise you this, I will read it to him again. Later in his life, and again... until he does. It's my job. To make sure he gets it. My job to help him along his journey and keep him on the road. <br /><br />That got me thinking.<br /><br />No parent ever plans to let her kids fork off on that path that takes them the wrong way. So where and when does that happen to people? The lady on the corner begging for change, who looks from behind to be 21 but who's face had the wear of a 60 year old? That man who sleeps under a tree with a cart of metal he plans on selling for cash. I'm not jumping ahead and wondering if Jude will be homeless or anything, don't get me wrong. I just can't help but ponder how any of us ends up where we are. I look back on the endless myriad of choices we have had like a maze of veins, forking in all directions. Each choice bringing us to a new path. And I wonder about fate and destiny and I wonder if all our choices really matter or are we destined to end up where we are.. do all roads lead us here?<br /><br />I am pretty happy about where my life has lead. I really would not change a thing.<br /><br />I read somewhere. I can't quite remember... that a person can say they have had a good life if they can look back and say that they'd not change a thing. Not that they did not make mistakes but that they understand that those mistakes made them who they are and that they liked who they are.<br /><br />I understand that each and every choice I have made has lead me here and even though some of those choices were not great, even though some hurt, burn, scalded... I am here and I like what I see when I look out of these eyes. Of course things could be better. I could have a better house, a better car, a 100 less pounds, more money in the bank. I could spend half a day comparing myself and my achievements or lack of to others around me. I could measure myself be someone else's ruler. But I choose not to. I choose to look at life with this heart and from these eyes, and the view from here is pretty spectacular.<br /><br />In the book Milo comes upon a boy who is floating in mid air. A boy named Alec Bings. The boy talks to Milo about perspective.&nbsp; He says, "...you certainly can't always look at something from someone else's Point of View. For instance, from here that looks like a bucket of water (pointing to a bucket of water.) But from an ant's point of view it's a vast ocean, from an elephant's just a cool drink, and a fish , of course, it's a home. So, you see, the way you look at things depends a great deal on where you look at them from."<br /><br />Don't waste one more second thinking about what you don't have, be grateful for what you do. Don't waste one more second on complaints about things you don't like if you've no plan to change them. Don't waste on more minute on judgement of anothers life, because maybe it's exactly where they want to be, or need to be. <br /><br />I wonder if those people that I see on the corner got stuck in the doldrums. I wonder if they are lost in the foothills of confusion. Or perhaps are they exactly where they choose to be? Perhaps from where they stand life looks beautiful?<br /><br />Perhaps the road Jude goes down will be completely different than one I'd choose for him, perhaps it will be hard, perhaps it will be fraught with danger and mistakes and pitfalls...All I can ask is that he learn from them, grow from them, build on them, and eventually look in his rear view mirror at them with great thanks. It's only when we get stuck in them and can't find our way out that we are truly lost. Jude's heart is always a compass for me, and I know it will serve him well. Jude may take the scenic route, but I know he will be all the better for it.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />"And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” <br />― <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1938.Friedrich_Nietzsche">Friedrich Nietzsche</a>Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-91728181492685522472015-01-13T10:36:00.001-08:002015-01-13T10:36:22.157-08:00My Driveway is Magic<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal">My Magic Driveway…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay so I know I’m a weirdo but it’s totally true, my driveway is magic and this story probably reveals more of my insanity than I should actually be sharing. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Where to begin? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When I was like 27 or so, I was watching an episode of Oprah (because all good stories begin with and episode of Oprah, right?) It was about finances and how all of your financial views could be traced back to your very first memories of money as a child. (uh oh is right!!) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>It was about teaching our kids now how to handle and be responsible financially. I started to think back about my first memories, not having kids of my own yet to screw up, I wanted to see what damage my parents had done to me. I was blown away. My very first memories of money were that of my magic driveway. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We lived in a small house in a neighborhoody neighborhood. We had a white fence and our tiny house was sunny and yellow. Our driveway started out as gravel and sand and then was paved as it sloped closer to the garage. When my dad would get home from work, he’d empty his pockets of change in the gravel and leave behind pennies and nickels for me to find later. I thought it was magic. I’d go out later and I’d plunder hordes of treasure thinking I’d be the richest kid in the vicinity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was fun to me. I was five or six at the time and my world, and my driveway were great happy places. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I can see however, where this woman on Oprah was going and how accurate her suggestions actually were. I had made it to my late 20’s at that time, and deep in me I still looked for the magic money. I opened every envelope hoping to find a large check, I checked my mailbox with secret anticipation, I always looked for change on the ground, and I never missed a chance to by a raffle or lotto ticket, knowing I’d be a winner. Saving, scrimping, and budgeting be damned because, “Hey! Money comes to me by magic!” After the episode I did some major re-hauling of my life and bank account. Because damn it, if it’s on Oprah well, you betta recognize! Major changes were wrestled through. Life got better, it actually did and I grew up! I did. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But my driveway is still magic. I can not explain this phenomenon. Now much older (yes.. I am old-er) the driveway of my current home still manages to produce some very interesting treasure. We have a tiny house to in a similar less neighboorhoody neighborhood as the one I grew up in (in an entirely different part of town.) Every day is a surprise. What will it bring now? I decided I had to write about it some months back when it produced a rather large and fluffy white rabbit. I put it off thinking I was being silly but three rather weird and challenging gifts later, my driveway will no longer be ignored. It must have its story told. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Months back my husband pulled into the back of the drive at the same time I pulled into the front. The kids were so happy he was home, they jumped form the car. He came around front with an astonished look on his face asking if I’d just seen that giant white rabbit. Alice is that you? I laughed and said WHAT? He then swore that he’d just seen a huge, all white with pink eyes, bunny jump under our third car. I did not believe him until the fuzzy nose poked out from behind a tire. The kids then spent the better part of the next week plotting ways to catch it and inventing new rabbit traps. Eventually the poor thing wore down and surrendered. He lived with us for weeks before he became the class pet and eventually found a more permanent living arrangement.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ppUkgBKfjQ0/VLVliQEmqVI/AAAAAAAAATQ/aGKWE5AvVeI/s1600/bs1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ppUkgBKfjQ0/VLVliQEmqVI/AAAAAAAAATQ/aGKWE5AvVeI/s1600/bs1.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;But I could not shake how funny it was to find a big ole pink eyed bunny in my driveway. It’s not like we live in the country! Obviously someone’s escaped pet he’d found us and thus his new saviors through the magic driveway portal. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Next came the same sized brown bunny. Nope, not even kidding- not one little bit. He proved much more difficult to catch. Jude spent weeks. One ENTIRE Saturday was whittled away in contraptions. That bunny was just too fast. But again, the cold weather and the lack of greenery must have worn down the little guy. Jude finally captured him with a few carrots as bait. He and his puff of a white tail found a new home with our neighbors grandkids. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So you’d think the drive would be satisfied. But alas we have now been gifted a pretty fluffy crème colored pooch. She showed up there just two days ago. I was beginning to feel a bit like my Grandma Jerry who had an entire circus of stray animals who called hers home. People would drive to the end of her country road and dump off puppies or cats and they’d find their way back up to her house. She always loved and fed them. That house was becoming my house. All except I live smack in the inner city and this circus was popping (and pooping) up in my driveway! The crème colored beauty is still here. She has decided my dog is her bestie and we will probably either keep her or find her a home. (Man this is becoming a full time gig.) Crash (my dog) even has relinquished ownership of his dog house to her. He was found sitting outside of it when it began to rain a night ago and we went to bring him inside. He was just sitting there letting her stay warm and dry. He’s sweet like Jude. They are spirit animals I swear. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But that brings me to last nights treasure! It’s a weird one… I mean what are the odds… </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I have to jump back just a bit on this one too. When Ricky and I started to date, we discovered that as kids we had a mutual hobby. We created skits and shows with our cousins for our families. (OMG he is going to kill me for this)&nbsp; One of his was to the song Xanadu! So was mine! I loved that movie! I loved that movie, I loved that song and man did I want to be Olivia Newton John. The skirt, the leg warmers! Oh I wanted to be her! Raci Buchman and I for hours in my basement singing and dancing and even roller skating around! So being the joker I am, I’d call Rick way back in the beginning of our time together, and leave a recording of myself singing Xanadu! …. Now we are here in Xanadu-ooooo.. Xanadu your neon light will shine…. for you Xanadu..&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />The love, the echoes of long ago<br />You needed the world to know, they are in Xanadu</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Aheeemmmmm.. sorry I got carried away in song there for a moment. I still leave him that message now and then. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He comes in the house last night and he’s all freaked out, calls me and asks if I’ve been home. He thinks someone may have broken in. He checks all the windows and as I am coming up the porch stairs, just getting home, he opens the front door and asks me if I still have my old Xanadu record.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">(DUHHH.. of course I do.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He wants me to go get it. And because I’m a freak I can and do in like under 5 seconds. Here she is… complete with lyrics… ahhhh. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He is puzzled. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Why I ask? Then he tells me that there is the same Xanadu record in the driveway. I am absolutely not kidding- not even one bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Here is picture proof.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mt-Jfs3yhvw/VLVlUUNIogI/AAAAAAAAATI/QRdjumCwVW4/s1600/bs2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mt-Jfs3yhvw/VLVlUUNIogI/AAAAAAAAATI/QRdjumCwVW4/s1600/bs2.jpg" height="320" width="179" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And now you see that my driveway is magic, that I could ignore this no longer, and that the world must obviously know of its great powers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So sometimes the first perceptions you form at 5 or 6 are absolutely correct. Sometimes there is magic in life even if it’s totally weird and pointless magic. And sometimes, nay- all the time Xanadu is a great thing to find in your driveway! (seriously what ARE the odds?) </div>Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-81864526857897246662014-11-12T12:20:00.002-08:002014-11-12T12:20:34.106-08:00NovemberIt's November. Here it is months since I have written. A dry spell? Not exactly... For me it's more like a retreat. Not the kind you go to to get a massage and drink a Daiquiri, but the kind you do when at war and you are being beaten.<br /><br />Retreat.<br /><br />I was recently involved in a project with a couple of people. This project took my heart, my time, my love. In return.... I'm not sure what I got. I'm still thinking on that. I won't say it was bad but I will say it was tough. It shouldn't have been. It should have been uplifting, enlightening, and surging with possibility. It wasn't. For me it felt a little like a war. I took hit after hit until I was ready to retreat. That's not me. Not who I am. Ever. I stand and fight. I push on. I move ahead. I win.<br /><br />I can't say why it turned out the way it did. It just did, but it caused my retreat. It caused me to not want to write. I love to write. It caused me to question my ability and my voice. It shouldn't have. It should have affirmed those things. It caused me to hide. It should have made me blossom. <br /><br />It's November, and here I am. I'm still like a cat licking away at these wounds. Who am I? Who am I? Why did it hurt?<br /><br />To add to my feelings of insecurity, Finn leaves me alone to start Kindergarten. I am over them moon happy for him but alone here is scary. Only myself to face, to listen to, to talk to. Where is my voice? Why won't it return?<br /><br />I sit here today fighting the urge to retreat, fighting the urge to scream, fighting the urge to cry. <br /><br />Fighting... that's me. Always fighting and moving forward. Coming back to me. Because that's who I am. A fighter. I rage on, not die down.<br /><br />I feel a little like I'm at the eye of the hurricane. The calm when all the world swirls around you in madness. I am still and listening for that voice. Coaxing her out. Holding my hand out and calling to her. Asking to be taken from the still into the winds. That's me. I normally live in the storm and I thrive there. I embrace that pace and movement. I embrace that chaos. I embrace that fierceness.<br /><br /><br />It's Novemeber...<br /><br />I'm donning my armor and suiting up for the battle...ready for the storm. Ready to return to me.Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-66020453083202787932014-06-30T20:50:00.002-07:002014-06-30T21:06:31.175-07:00My How the Time Flies"Mommy will you help me get this on?" As I am fastening the Velcro on his over-worn spider man costume he is running away. I reach out as he is fleeing and brush his curly golden locks with my fingertips. He does not notice, he is running away. He is always running away. My heart aches. Soon he will be running from my car door at the curb of his school into the wide open world of kindergarten and then beyond. Time is flying. "One: my pretty pony- two: my pretty pony.. " Stephen King wrote a short story called <a href="http://stephenking.com/library/short_story/my_pretty_pony.html">My Pretty Pony</a> in which a man explains to his grandson about how as he grows older time begins to move faster and faster, "slipping away from you in great chunks if you don't hold tightly onto it." That is how I am feeling. <br /><br />I stood in the wave pool searching the bobbing bodies for my girl. I know she is safe but I'd sure feel better if I could only put my eyes on her. I pick over all the neon pink bikinis in my field of vision. When she chose it at the store I was hesitant but thought to myself that she sure would be easy to spot. She beamed at her image in the mirror, so happy and confident I could never have said no. Now I am looking around and it appears that every other mother had the same idea, as she is lost in a sea of pink bikinis. I actually passed over her several times. I saw two girls sitting facing one another in a double inner tube. They were much too old to be my girl and her friend. They are only 10. Little girls in my mind. These two had long lean legs dangling from their raft and hair that flowed down their backs. They were easily 15 or 16. These two laughed and tossed their locks about, kicking their legs, splashing up water. As I drew closer they came more into focus. There she was, the teen girl and her friend- beauties. It was my girl. My ten year old looking like she was all grown up. I felt it again. Bracing myself like the Earth shifted.<br /><br />We were leaving the restaurant and he was walking ahead. He looked back to see if his friend was following him and fell right over the parking barrier; fell flat. I gasped and said, "Are you okay? Oh my gosh, are you hurt?" He leapt up and yelled.."Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!" We all laughed and his buddy said. "Ha, now there is the Jude I know!" The Jude he knows.... A funny, outgoing, independent boy who doesn't need his mom and is way past the point of boo boo kisses. They climbed into our car and laughed the whole way home whispering about video games and maybe even sisters that were pests. I glanced several times back in the rear view mirror at his handsome features. He is becoming so handsome. He always holds the door open for ladies. He is quick with a compliment. I was proud but still shaken.<br /><br />Days and days have just slipped through my fingers. Some I wished were over and others that I can never get&nbsp; back. The time is flying. I am powerless to stop or even slow it. All I can do is be here and now and be present for those moments when those shifts take place. I love them so much.<br /><br />Right now in the other room they are still small. Finn is meowing like a cat while Jude and Char are putting on a play. They all are falling out in laughter. They are so loud talking over one another so the next cool idea can be heard. Right now time is flying and I am just here watching.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/q73Jb8ChjuM?feature=player_embedded' FRAMEBORDER='0' /></div><br />Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-84321483335071261082014-06-07T21:32:00.000-07:002014-06-07T21:49:17.656-07:00Is your "truth" just an excuse for you to be an asshole?????<span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}">So as I said on Facebook I have been doing a lot of thinking about this new trend of "Speaking your Truth." For the most part I am about "Speaking your Truth." I am for it, I vote YES. Yes, more power to ya! If you are brave enough and open enough to talk about your baggage, your woes, your dirt, your life then I think that is great and powerful and cathartic.&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}">If you want to finally talk about being molested as a child, if you want to tell everyone that once you were raped, if you want to be strong and come out and say, "I'm gay!" that's fine too. Proud of you! Go for it... please. I think it makes us all feel more connected, accepted, and one.&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}">However- the line for me is when your "Truth" is about someone else. DURRR?? You are thinking. Yes it would seem that it's common sense that YOUR truth would be about YOU. Well as it turns out, it is not all that common (the sense that is...)&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}">There seems to be this new kind of "truth" people are <strike>speaking</strike> rather hiding behind, that is not really truth- instead it<span class="text_exposed_show">'s just and excuse to be mean. "I'm really struggling with this. I can't go on, I must speak my truth. I have to tell you that I just don't really like you. I can't see myself wasting one more minute of my time near you. Please understand- I'm just speaking my truth." Mistaken!!- Newsflash.. that's not YOUR truth it is just really mean.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show">"Oh how BRAVE she is for having 'Spoken her Truth.' " I've heard in response.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Again... mistaken.</span></span><br /><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Brave would be to have walked away or turned the other cheek. In a work relationship Brave is the person who pushes through it and does the job that needs doing without all the drama. In a friendship, brave- well yes it says the hard things but it does so with compassion. Brave in love shows much grace and patience. It stands by and holds the hand and lifts up it's loved one instead of tearing them down. In a group of people we don't really know? BRAVE says to him or herself.. "Well, I dont really agree and I may not like or maybe even actually hate the way that person is, but I must acknowledge that I dont have to like them. It's okay for them to be exactly who they are. I don't have to like them. I can just chose to ignore or walk away from them." BRAVE has a filter..... BRAVE does not have diarrhea of the mouth!!! BRAVE is not juvenile. BRAVE shows restraint and class. BRAVE considers not only his or her feelings but seriously weighs the consequence of the words they are about to speak and BRAVE- well Brave is concerned with the feelings of the person whom they might be hurting with their "truth"....</span></span><br /><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show">&nbsp;It is far more brave a task to stick it out and try to make things work than to walk away veiled in "truths."</span></span><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span></span><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show">I have been thinking a lot about a speech I heard a year back at Listen to Your Mother 2013 in Kansas City. The speech was by <a href="http://twisstedfancy.com/">Michelle Burdick</a>. She writes this great blog. She is talented and she is funny.. But more than that she is classy and filled with grace. In her<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8fdlfBhJQpc"> speech</a> in 2013 she talked about a hard relationship with her mother and she talked about how it has made her into the person she is. She likes who she is. So along with all the bad- she acknowledges all the good that came from her childhood. She states in her conclusion, a list of "gifts" her mother gave her. One is the ability to and the knowledge that we must "meet people where they are."&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show">What brilliant advice.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span></span><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Will I like everyone I ever meet?- Nope no way. Maybe not even MOST of the people I meet. But will I allow them to be who they are and to live in the space that they live in without my judgement on them. Yes... yes I will. Isn't that how we all should think? If I want to be who I am and say what I want to say- to "Speak MY truth" then don't I have to allow you to be who you are? </span></span><br /><br /><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Don't like someone? Don't be around them- pretty simple. You do not have to speak it. A little class needs to be restored.</span></span><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> I'm guilty too sometimes... we post we tweet.. we pinterest and instagram- everything we are thinking.. I am wondering if we are forgetting how to be decent and polite? Has the lack of physical presence and all these virtual relationships caused us to become unable to be decent? Do we spew out our "truth" from the safety of our keyboard so much that when we are with other real humans we forget to be kind and decent????</span></span><br /><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show">I at least try to make my posts and my statements about ME. I try to own whatever feelings I have about another person. Because hey- here is another newsflash.... What you don't like about another person... well 99.999% of the time it's because they either scare you, mirror you, or make you realize where you fall short. When you lash out at someone it's because YOU are lacking in some way.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show">You know what would be truly brave? A little introspection and a little SILENCE.....&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show">( I know.. I know.."said the loud mouthed blogger") </span></span><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span></span><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span></span><br /><br /><span class="userContent" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Not everyone needs to know everything you are thinking. A filter needs to be returned to our lives. We can't and shouldn't just go popping off our "truth" at the expense of others feelings. I leave you with this question........."Is YOUR truth just an excuse for you to be an asshole??"</span></span>Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-6355147834553637012014-05-28T11:33:00.000-07:002014-05-28T11:33:25.263-07:00The Other Shoe<div style="text-align: center;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The old saying goes..."I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."&nbsp;</div><br />Always waiting.<br /><br />I have a pretty beautiful life. I do really! I am utterly humbled and grateful for it everyday- this life. I make sure to feel it- live it- say it. I make sure to be present.<br /><br />But somewhere ALWAYS- in the deepest recesses of my mind- I am waiting for the other shoe to drop.<br /><br />I am not sure why. Is it somewhere down deep in my psyche? Is it a spoiled leftover from childhood? I don't know- can't fathom.<br /><br />I wake on any given day to a radio alarm clock playing a funny-annoying- or great song. I stretch and usually by that time my husband has showered me with kisses and hugs and questions about my plans for the day. I get up and get dressed. Enjoy three more soggy kisses from barely open eyed babies. Make breakfast and lunch for three precocious children who make me laugh all the way through the morning with one problem or another. There is no underwear in my drawers-or I've forgotten homework-or an "Opps! I did not tell you but I need a new folder TODAY!" And none of it bothers me. It mostly just makes me love them more. It mostly makes me laugh.<br /><br />Always waiting .<br /><br />It's not in the front of my mind. I can usually manage to push it all the way to the back-to squash it before it gets going and gains momentum. But-when it creeps in... field trip today-better pack a sack lunch and remind him to wear tennis shoes and shorts so he won't get too hot, and - Oh my God what if the bus crashes? Should I drive separately so I can attempt to pull him from the wreckage? It seems funny to say out loud but it happens everyday. Sometimes it catches me off guard and other times I am prepared for it. The voice in my head begins. "Finn needs to stay with a sitter this afternoon for like an hour so I can go to a short meeting. I will make sure he has his tablet to play with and some other toys to keep him occupied. I need to make sure he's eaten a good breakfast so he doesn't get hungry while he is there because I don't expect her to feed him."&nbsp; Then in creeps- "What if he chokes on a lego? Will she know what to do? What if she lets him play outside and doesn't watch him carefully and he gets kidnapped?"&nbsp; I push it back down. I remind myself I am being silly. "What if she spanks him? What if she makes him cry? What if I get into a car accident before I go to pick him up. Will I have given him enough hugs so that his last memory of me will be a happy one?" Sometimes it's so BIG these feelings-this dialogue-that I actually and quite literally have to choke it down. This can't be normal??<br /><br />Always waiting.<br /><br />My husband only kissed me once quickly this morning before running off to work. Is he falling out of love with me? He didn't touch me as he passed by in the kitchen.<br /><br />Even now as I write these words I know how crazy they must sound. If I were diagnosing myself I'd say definitely anxiety, possibly even paranoia? <br /><br />Knowing myself as I do- I can tell you for sure it's that I never believe I am good enough. I never believe that I deserve this life- these great kids and this love from my husband. WHY? I am always waiting for this rug to be pulled out from underneath me- for that other shoe to drop.<br /><br />I am aware of the idea of a "self fulfilling prophecy." I am aware of the idea that focusing on this negative will only draw it to me. Yet--<u>Still</u> I can not make it go away.<br /><br />I wonder if-in part- it is because I love them so much- so deeply- so hard that the only thing in life that scares me is losing them.<br /><br />Fear is the opposite of love. Fear only breeds the bad and the negative and so I desperately try to push it away. I want to replace it with only love. But it's there and as much as I try to crush it- to bury it- it's there and it comes back up. It sort of feels like that moment you are walking through a haunted house waiting for the next goblin to jump out and scare you. Not the moment you get scared but that awful feeling you have anxiously waiting for it. <br /><br />Always waiting for it.<br /><br />Does anyone else feel this way or do I need therapy. Well- I probably need therapy but seriously? Does anyone else ever feel like this? Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-34512878392097589172014-05-09T12:46:00.002-07:002014-05-20T09:07:58.676-07:00I am not alone…<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">So this is it -the dreaded wrap up post. I have been brewing it in my head for days.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Thinking of lines from the show that moved me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Thinking of how I feel and the looks on the faces I was able to read from the stage.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Thinking of the comments I’ve gotten days and days since.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Brain completely shutting down as I am swilling in and drowning in emotion. I turn on the radio to LISTEN to <a href="http://kcur.org/post/motherhood-when-you-were-fish#.U2wNhjAkTJc.facebook">Liz Tasio’s reading on KCU</a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null">R. </a></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was beautiful and moving and perfect- as it was the day of the show. The words are so perfect.<br />But it was also what came the entire hour before her piece was read on the program <a href="http://kcur.org/programs/central-standard">Central Standard</a>, that cause me to become un-hinged. A history lesson on the origins of Mother's day or Mothers' day, as the debate was waged. I had gone through 42 of these holidays and never once did it occur to me to question the birth/origin of the day. I assumed a day generated in some capitalistic fashion to garner money for the floral or chocolate industry. I was WAY wrong.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">An uber feminist from way back in 1870 named Julia Ward Howe wanted a call to action for women. She believed that women are the ones who end wars, women are the ones who unite and not divide. She wanted women to ban together to bring peace to the world. She wanted an end to the bloodshed of our children in the name of a war she did not believe in. She authored the following originally titled, "An Appeal to Womanhood Throughout the World." Later the name changed to, "The Mother's Day Proclamation."</div><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: small;">"Arise, then, women of this day&nbsp;! Arise, all women who have hearts, Whether our baptism be of water or of tears&nbsp;! Say firmly&nbsp;: We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies. Our husbands shall not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause. Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn all that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience. We, women of one country, will be too tender of those of another country, to allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs. From the bosom of the devastated earth a voice goes up with our own. It says: Disarm, disarm! The sword of murder is not the balance of justice. Blood does not wipe out dishonor, nor violence vindicate possession. As men have often forsaken the plough and the anvil at the summons of war, let women now leave all that may be left of home for a great and earnest day of council.</span><br /> <span style="font-size: small;">Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead. Let them then solemnly take council with each other as to the means whereby the great human family can live in peace, man as the brother of man, each bearing after his own kind the sacred impress, not of Caesar, but of God.</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">In the name of womanhood and humanity, I earnestly ask that a general congress of women, without limit of nationality, may be appointed and held at some place deemed most convenient, and at the earliest period consistent with its objects, to promote the alliance of the different nationalities, the amicable settlement of international questions, the great and general interests of peace. "</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">A wave washed over me.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I realized I am not alone.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mine is not a new or unique cause. I am not a trendsetting, headline making, way-paver. I am saying nothing new and profoundly life altering.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am actually humbled by that realization.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am happy with it.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">&nbsp;In fact a bit ecstatic. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am one, in a line of MANY MANY MANY women who have come before me begging, demanding, and instigating a consciousness of heart and mind. I am one, in a line of many who wanted change, who advocated for it, who spoke up for it. I am one, in a line of many who realized the power we as women harness to bring about that change- TO UNITE.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">In my closing for the show this year I said. "It is the story that unites." It is OUR story that unites. I may be placing her on a pedestal she is not prepared for but <a href="http://www.annimig.com/">Ann Imig</a> is in league with women like Julia Ward Howe. She gave us this show to share our voices, our stories and in short to unite this world in the name of Motherhood. I am proud to have been a part in it.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am proud to have shared a stage and to have facilitated 14 women in telling their truth. I am proud of the things they shared and the people they touched.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://motherofmayhem.com/">Amy Carlson</a> had one line in her piece called "Together."&nbsp; She said, "It's the anti-pregnant belly. All negative space." That line haunted me for days after the show and feeling a little empty and alone that it was over, that line was all I could think of. Like in a way I had just given birth and my children had all grown and left the nest in one short weekend. Yes- that is what it feels like. But then I realized in LISTENING to that Mother's day proclamation, that I had helped put something of beauty into the world. Helped UNITE. There is nothing empty about that.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am not alone. I stand in good company. This year with 14 women telling stories that unite.&nbsp; We are part of the bigger picture, a grander plan. I am eternally grateful for that.&nbsp;</span> </span>Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-27390952323784976592014-04-22T11:35:00.001-07:002014-04-22T16:59:53.254-07:00Well played...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal">Here is my "Reverse Bucket List"</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I know I know- but, sometimes I too can fall victim to the “It’s already been played out.” Everyone (and their mother) has done one, and in truth reading them, I kept thinking that really they were written just for the purpose of petting your own ego. Yep, and that is why I am writing mine today. Bruised and battered lately by some fierce critics I feel like I need a pick me up. So in a sort of “love letter to myself” here is my reverse bucket list. Sorry if it’s played and egotistical but reminding myself like Stuart Smalley that, “I deserve good things; I am entitled to my share of happiness. I refuse to beat myself up. I am an attractive person. I am fun to be with. And darn it people like me…” is a necessity today. So here we go...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#1. I have a beautiful family! Three perfectly awesome kids who make my life a living dream. (I consider this one my greatest accomplishments)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#2. I have a pretty happy marriage. My husband of 13 years is my rock, and my support.I am actually totally in love with this man!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#3. I have traveled the world. France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Mexico, Grand Cayman, Bahamas’s, Brussels, and Switzerland (and am not even close to finished.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#4. I have traveled the US. New York, New Jersey, Maryland, Pennsylvania, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Tennessee, Kentucky, Illinois, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, California (and am not even close to finished.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#5.I have lived in 4 states in the US. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#6. I graduated high school in the top 10 in my class with a full ride to Rockhurst College. (where I screwed up my first year and am not one bit ashamed since its part of what made me who I am today.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#7. I graduated from UNCW with honors and a 3.6 GPA. I possess a BA in English, AA, and a AGE. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#8. I was published in my college’s anthology. A poem called “Juice” (on the first page<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>no less.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#9. I wrote three front page articles in my college newspaper. The Seahawk.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#10. I wrote music reviews and the horoscopes for a magazine called JUICE in college. It was a “Surf, Sound, and Skate” mag. I was NOT cool enough to have worked there.. ha ha </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#11. I met Anthony Hopkins, Mary Stewart Masterson, Nicolas Cage, Laura Flynn Boyle, and Mathew Broderick while at college in Wilmington. They were there for films they’ve made. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#12.&nbsp; <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I performed in Listen to Your Mother 2013 and am now co-directing the 2014 season. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#13. I was an extra in the made for TV movie, “In a child’s name” starring Valerie Bertinelli.. ( ha ha ha) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#14. I served in the Board of Directors at Academie Lafayette for two years.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#15. I speak some, read a lot, and comprehend well the French language. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#16. I have a “successful” blog. (I love it- anyway)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#17. I performed live on stage (the second stage) in Austin at the Lollapalooza in 1995, with the Austin Slam Poets. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#18. I performed live on stage at COUNTLESS live open mic nights. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#19. I have friends that I actively engage with in over 6 countries. A citizen of the world.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#20. I have been on TV several times and not one of them was for a crime.. ha ha ha.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#21. I have never been convicted of a crime.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#22. I was in a play (with actual speaking lines.)&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#23. I have auditioned for three musicals. I did not make one of them but at least I tried damn it!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#24. I have sold over 113 pieces of artwork and often will come across people who have a piece of my artwork in their home and did not even know it was mine!&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#25. Have actually finished ALL the laundry on exactly three occasions in my life. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">#26. Bought my own home with my own money when I was a single woman.<br /><br />#27. Learned to surf.<br /><br />#28. Snorkeled with sea lions in the Sea of Cortez.<br /><br />#29. Am the main character in a book an ex-boyfriend wrote. I am listed as "Lady Lambeth." She is a French courtesan. It was published.. I do not have a copy but I have read it and it's AWFUL! ha ha...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />#30. I am a master at card tricks. Ask me next time we are at a party together. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So, I think that is about all. Sorry for the bragging but I needed some self lifting today. At times it’s the little things in life right? Like reminding myself that never having been in jail is actually a pretty important accomplishment at 42. Now I just need to make sure to keep my kids out and my husband too. I’ve lived a good life so far, it’s not over- not by a long shot and in the next years there are even more things I will accomplish in this life. Write a book, go on an overseas mission, and much more travel are all things in store for me. While I don’t think I’ll skydive anytime soon I can see a zip line in my future or maybe a short cliff dive. I’ll be sure to post pics. </div>Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-3616072446387389072014-03-03T17:31:00.001-08:002014-03-03T17:31:34.269-08:00The cutting room floor<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal">In casting the <a href="http://listentoyourmothershow.com/kansascity/">Listen to Your Mother show 2014 for Kansas City</a>. Sometimes even the most beautiful loving and well written pieces end up on the cutting room floor. My own piece for this year's show was no exception. I wanted to share it anyhow so here it is. If you are reading this and you did not make the show either. Trust me when I say, "I feel your pain." Trust me when I say that what you wrote was beautiful, touching, and IMPORTANT.&nbsp; Trust me when I say that sometimes it is just a matter of how the grand puzzle that is the show falls into place so neatly. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So here you go. A piece right of the cutting room floor.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;Ila Marie Osborn</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Everything about me today I owe to the great mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and aunts I have been so fortunate to have in my life. I stand here today a perfect mosaic of what all these beautiful strong ladies were and all that they taught me to be. I am thankful for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>All lived wonderfully full lives. All had beautiful healthy families. All grew old and died peacefully and happy. All that is but one and this is her story that I am about to tell you. Well, It’s more accurate to say that this is OUR story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>She <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>deserved a happy ending and I her writer granddaughter am here today to give it to her. To re-write her story. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When I was 16, my grandmother was murdered. BOOM there it is. Like a ton of bricks. Who does that even happen to? Certainly not little old ladies? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My grandmother (my mother’s mother), Ila Marie Osborn, was a mere 56 years old when this happened. Not really old at all and even younger at heart. She was one of those strange old ladies, very youthful and childlike in her ways. You all know them, the ones with like 30 stuffed animals piled in the rear windows of their cars. She actually had knitted throw pillows in the back seat of her Chrysler and a quilted blanket. She always wore very shiny clothes and almost always in a shade of lavender. Why does it seem that older ladies always wear lavender? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Costume jewelry drenched her ears, arms, fingers, and neck. I loved playing in her bathroom because she must have had 20 shades of the brightest lipstick one can imagine with names like “Burning Sunset”, “Russian Red”, and “Heat Wave.” The orange ones were her favorite. Open up her fridge and in lieu of butter or eggs on the door you would find 100 shades of nail polish that she stored there. Her nails were always perfectly manicured. Her dressing table was a little girls Mecca. Littered with baubles and bracelets, sleek bottles of sweet smelling perfumes, bedazzled with pearls and beads, filled with fluffy powder puffs and pretty pink things that I had no idea how to use. She always used big powder puffs. I have never known anyone since who has used them, but she always did. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">She had this little clear glass bottle filled with shiny polished gem stones. I coveted that thing. I always wanted to spill them out and play with them, but she would never let me. It seemed to me that she kept them to remind her of something. I never knew what. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>It was the only thing I wanted from her house when she was gone. It meant nothing to anyone but me. Was worth nothing I’m sure, but I wanted it badly since it had always been off limits. I never found out what happened to it. It probably was thrown out with all the other piles of junk we got rid of after her death. I still think of it. I attribute that little bottle of jewels with my obsession for rhinestones, glitter, and all things shiny now! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">She had wigs galore as well. They came in every color of the hair rainbow and in every style too. I always thought the Styrofoam heads they sat upon seemed creepy. She had a ton of dress up clothes. I distinctly remember a Scarlett O’Hara get up of sorts with a wide hoop contraption underneath and gingham skirts. I also remember a sleek black dress from Frederick’s of Hollywood. She was idyllic to me as a child. She was like me. She was like a little girl. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh and she was the BEST tea-party thrower. She had little outdoor furniture for us, chairs and a metal table with and umbrella. She had it outside on a patio surrounded by a lush garden bursting with flowers. Roses in every color, big cabbage like hydrangea, bleeding hearts, and sweet smelling hyacinth to be specific.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>These tea parties were a fairy tale to me as a young child. We’d dress up in all her frilly stuff and wigs and what not. Fake pearls galore. Orange lipstick prints would rim our teacups. This is the really great part: our “tea” was ALWAYS actually water with a handful of red-hot’s thrown in. you know the cinnamon drop candies. She’d put them in our cups to flavor and turn the water pink. Vanilla wafers and some times Madeleines, we would have with our “tea.” As a child, I adored going there. It was MAGIC. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I began to grow though, it became less interesting for me. No matter how old I got she stayed the same. I remember one Christmas getting gifts from her. I was maybe 12 at the time and one of the gifts was one of those wooden puzzles with the really big pieces. The other was an outfit that was four sizes too small and looked as if it were designed for a six year old. No matter how old I was, it seemed that in her mind I’d always be a very little child. So going to her house became a less and less frequent event. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">For my 15<sup>th</sup> birthday she took me to Red Lobster and shopping. I remember feeling a little embarrassed by the gaudy way she looked. Looking back now I feel awful about that. Teenagers are assholes and I was not the exception. I remember her water glass having the orange lipstick stains and feeling disgusted by that. I remember watching her eat. She had enormous boobs. All crumbs would fall into her cleavage and she would fish them out. I crouched in my seat with hot faced embarrassment. They say “what you mock you become” and look at me now- (motion to boobs) I think of her every time I fish a piece of lettuce out of my bra! We went that day, into some trendy store in the mall where I made a quick purchase of earrings and a shirt before anyone cool from my high school might walk in. She loved me. She wanted to spend the day with me and I was EMBARRASSED. What a jerk. I still have those earrings. I cherish them now even though they are a little bit 80’s. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The next year when my 16<sup>th</sup> birthday rolled around I was sure to be gone when she came to visit. God forbid I have to endure another embarrassing shopping trip. I was out with my newly acquired driver’s license being “COOL” as teenagers are apt to do. July 20<sup>th</sup>, 1988. She came to our house and left a gift with my mom. They had a nice chat and they hugged goodbye. My mom was one of the last people who ever saw her alive. I have no idea what that gift was for my 16<sup>th</sup> birthday. I can’t remember it at all. It was insignificant. All that happened after must have overshadowed that for me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">A day or so went by. The house that my grandmother lived in was the same one she’d lived in her whole life. She was so kind hearted and as the years had worn on, she had sort of become a care giver to all those around her. The elderly neighbors on either side in their upper 80’s relied on her. She would do small things like water their plants as she did her own. She was such a green thumb. She’d bring in their newspapers, help them walk their little dogs, sometimes pick up a thing or two at the grocery store for them but always checked on them each and everyday. That was the kind of person she was. Always giving of herself. When several days went by Mrs. Niccum who lived to her east called my mom to say she was worried. A search began. No car to be found, house locked tight. Police were called.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Reports were filed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">She was eventually found down near the Missouri river by a poor, drunk old fisherman who had stopped to urinate. He didn’t see her at first, he smelled her. It was July in Kansas City. Hot July. So even after only few days you can imagine what her condition must have been. I will not go into great detail here about what happened. I will not talk about the man that did it, how he did it, what he did to her. Not about the lengthy investigation, the gory details of the killing, or the awful trial my family endured. This is not that kind of story. I will only say that she was killed by someone she trusted. Someone in all of her glorious naivety she had tried to help by giving him odd jobs for small pay around her home. Someone she knew and wanted to believe in. She as I said was childlike; she believed the good in all. She always did what was right and she was always kind. What he did was the greatest sin. Not just killing but killing someone so pure at heart. In the end he got away with maybe one hundred dollars and a bunch of her fake costume jewelry. She died for nothing. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So as I said, I am here today. I am a piece of her and she of me.&nbsp; She deserved a different story. She was so kind. She deserved a happy ending, she deserved a fairy tale. I know in my heart that my mothers in this life were not just the one who gave birth to me. My mother’s were the ones who taught me my greatest lessons. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Ila taught me so many. As I reflect on who I am today, I am reminded that some of the best of who I am came from her. Her lessons were as follows; be young, have fun ALWAYS, be who you are, LOVE who you are. There is bliss everywhere. She taught me that teenagers can be jerks, but hopefully by the time they are 40 they will realize the error of their ways. She taught me to be gracious and kind, help others, to give of myself. To keep finger nail polish in the fridge so it doesn’t get clumps, to always leave the house looking your best. To love life, love your family, to be a good friend. That it’s okay to be a girly girl and that big boobs can be useful for catching your lunch. Still I think red-hots are delicious, flower gardens are magic. I am a walking encyclopedia of flower varietals because of all she taught me. She taught me to love with ferocity, too never be the first to let go in a hug. And even though in the end her trust in fellow man is what led to her death, I think she would not change that. I think she’d always tell me help others and trust that there is good in them somewhere. The most important lesson of all though: sparkling jewels and orange lipstick can brighten any day even if it hardly washes off your tea cups. </div>Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-21928092644193460182014-02-25T09:47:00.001-08:002014-02-26T05:05:40.728-08:00My husband is……<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My husband is a lot of things. (A saint for starters.) I blog about his shortcomings here and mainly I do it in jest. What never occurs to me is that he will take it with anything other than the best of my intentions. I always think he must know that I love him. I love all of him. I love all of Rick exactly how he is. Otherwise, I’d never chosen to spend an entire lifetime with him. I always think he knows that I’d never have chosen him to procreate with, if I did not know he’d make me laugh, cry, frustrate me at times, but mostly support me and be the best husband and father I could ever imagine. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes I guess what I write hurts his feelings. It never occurred to me that it did. For that I am deeply sorry. He is my rock. He is my guide, my beacon. He holds my hand and reminds me that I’m good enough. He lifts me up. He texts me everyday saying that he loves me and that I’m beautiful. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When I poke at him, it’s supposed to be in jest. It’s not supposed to be hurtful. I love him so much. I am lucky to have him and don’t often enough let him know that. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He helps with the kids, he helps with laundry, he does the dishes every Sunday. He kisses me every morning; he puts the lid down on the toilet. He kisses my neck when I’m cooking dinner. He remembers what color roses we had in our wedding. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes I wonder how I ever landed a guy this handsome and sweet. Especially as we grow older, I get more wrinkles and grey and he just looks more distinguished. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">He is ALL of this to me and I am so thankful he is mine and I am his. So thankful for this home we have created, this life we live, and these babies we’ve made. Without him it would all be lost. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">That is what my husband is to me. So yes, he is sometimes the butt of my jokes, but never ever anything less than EVERYTHING to me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">"My work is the only ground I've ever had to stand on. I seem to have a whole superstructure with no foundation, but I'm working on the foundation."&nbsp; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="bqquotelink"><span style="color: black;">Said by Marilyn Monroe</span></span><br /><span class="bqquotelink"><span style="color: black;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span class="bqquotelink"><span style="color: black;">I have a foundation. It was built for me by the constant praise, belief in me, and love for me, by my husband. No one ever believed in me the way that he has. He has helped me to believe in myself.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span class="bqquotelink"><span style="color: black;">In short- My husband is THE SHIT!!!</span></span><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"></div><span class="bqquotelink"><span style="color: black; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>And NO he did not hack my blog…</span></span>Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-85698018540925488932014-02-22T15:26:00.002-08:002014-02-25T08:37:36.059-08:00Where I Lived<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">14515 West 60<sup>th</sup> Terrace </div><div class="MsoNormal">Shawnee, Kansas 66216 </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember it to this day. My dad built that house. He did it with his bare hands. It was one of the first in that subdivision. Fields and grass were all around the lot. There are a million houses in all directions of it now, but not then. In fact there were so many streets that just “ended” near that house. So many that would later become main thoroughfares but that back then, 33 years ago (<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Whoa!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>That just sunk in 33 years ago) those streets went exactly nowhere. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was seven when we moved there. I remember coming there when it was not even close to being finished. I remember the smell of the fresh cut wood. I still love that smell. Both my father and my husband build houses by trade so it’s a smell ingrained in my soul. I could tell a thousand vivid stories about that house, but I think I’ll let this one just be about the bones of that house. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I watched it go up. I was so excited to see each new phase. I was especially excited to stand in what would soon be my bedroom. I’d sit on the plywood floor looking up at the clear blue sky before the roof was put on and I’d imagine the colors it would be painted. I’d imagine where my furniture would go and I’d imagine where each and every one of my treasured possesions would be housed. I got first pick, behind my parents of course, of rooms. I picked the one closest to bathroom. I wanted my own and this would be the next best thing. The other room also had the attic access in the closet and that kind of creeped me out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember walking through the hall and into the dining room. I would peer over the edge of the opening where a sliding door would soon go into the mud caked back yard. I plotted where a swing set would be placed and imagined the lush grass I’d soon play in. There would later be a tiny playhouse looking just like the big house right there at the bottom of the stairs to a deck that was not yet built. I remember standing in the kitchen and wondering what each cubby and dividing wood structure would hold. A refrigerator or stove, a desk alcove, the sink, or a row of cabinets, what would it be? I watched little by little as it all took shape. <br /><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was more knowledgeable at nine, about how these things went together than most adults. This was the third new house my dad had built for us. The first one we never lived in as a passer by loved it so much that he made an offer on it before it was even finished. The second one we lived in for only a year or two, and this one we’d planned on the same. It would not later play out that way. My parents would soon divorce and I’d actually spend the entire rest of my childhood in that house. My dad would build a thousand more new houses for other families, but never again one for his "happy" little family. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">By the time I left that house when I was 18, I knew it like the back of my hand. I could have found my way around every corner, closet, and crevice wearing a blindfold. It was such and intimate place to me. I knew all of its flaws. She had a lot of them. I sometimes wonder if anyone has ever fixed any of them. The drawer in the guest bathroom (that was to the left if you are looking in the mirror) did not open all the way. It hit the door jam at about four inches open. It was only enough room for a small hand to fit. We kept almost nothing in that drawer. There was another just like it in the kitchen. When you opened that one it would hit the dials of the dishwasher. My mom kept her coupons in that drawer. The light on the left side of the front door if you were facing the house, never came on. No matter how much my dad tried to trace back the wiring, he could never make it come on. The floor of the “coat closet” was the ceiling of the stairwell to the basement. That meant that the floor in that closet was slanted and not flat. You could store nothing in that closet unless it fit on the shelf over the coats. There was a light switch at the bottom of the stairs to the playroom. It had four switches on the plate, and one of them went to absolutely nothing. It was always a mystery what it was even purposed for in the first place. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I loved that house. I guess I sort of imagined we’d always live there. I was broken when my mom told me she wanted to leave it. I don’t know why I loved it so much. So many bad things happened in that house. I can remember so many bad things and so very few really great things. I think I wanted to stay because so much of my life passed there, so many of my formative years. So much of my regular ordinary unimportant life happened there. Things like first kisses with boys, first dates, junior high and high school, best friends, graduations, curfews, first cars, fights with my sister, starting periods, having crushes, dying pets, planting flowers, honor rolls, and all of those other things regular life brings in and out. My sister broke my Prince album on the floor of the basement. We made up dance routines to the soundtrack of Xanadu. I roller skated to Def Leopard in the garage. I threw a party there my senior year and over 100 people came (it was epic). I burnt the hell out of some cookies, in that kitchen, which caused the smoke alarm to go off and my sister to come crawling from her room screaming, “Stop, drop, and roll.” I stepped in the neighbors dog poo in that yard. I was tired of that dog (Sandy) pooping in our yard so I gathered up all of it and threw it at their house. I had night terrors in my perfect fuscia bedroom where my mom’s boyfriend stole my innocence and trust and replaced it with a hole that sometimes to this day feels void. I saw my dad cry for the first time on the couch in the living room of that house when my mom said she’d had enough. Fights between my parents (so many many fights), I listened to in that house. Insignificant memories and life altering moments; all of them a part of me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When we left there, I wrote a note to the person who would later live in my room. I hid it in the trim on the inside of the closet in my bedroom. I wish I could tell you that I remember exactly what that note said. I wish I knew whether or not someone ever found it. I remember only that in the note I said that I hoped they took good care of the house it wasn't her fault, and that I hoped this bedroom brought better things to their life than it had brought to mine. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">That house had good bones. That house had bad skeletons. I loved that house. I hated it a little bit too I suppose. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-7913497096347999052014-02-18T10:32:00.000-08:002014-02-18T17:11:41.923-08:00You may experience some possible side effects...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal">I was up late (AGAIN) last night. This time I was catching up on Walking Dead, when it hit me. It seemed a plethora of pharmaceutical ads came on and I always laugh about their disclaimers. But this time it struck me as not only funny but fitting that Motherhood should come with these very same disclaimers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>They should be as follows:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">You may experience restlessness due to the lack of sleep you will be getting. Abnormal dreams may occur in some instances, especially if the things you have borne witness to through out the day were particularly disturbing. Dry mouth and constipation, as you will most likely not have even one minute to yourselves to pee, poop, or even have a sip of water. And if you do perchance have a cup somewhere with a beverage in it, most likely someone has either consumed it all for you or backwashed in it. You may experience moments of lack of focus and dizziness as you will mostly be running in fifty directions trying to get all done that needs to be done before sunset. Chronic trouble sleeping as you – well- you will not even have time. Excessive sweating from all the crazy bullshit thrown your way by work, school, children, and your spouse. Weight loss because you don’t have time to eat or MORE LIKELY weight gain because all you do have time for is an energy drink and whatever unhealthy quick thing you can shove in your mouth while doing laundry. You may experience heart pounding or feelings of nausea due to the extreme anxiety from the amount of work you must complete in a day. Headache and or rash do to the same crap I listed above. In rare cases (meaning not at all that rare) you may also experience hives, high blood pressure, blurred vision, ringing in the ears, problems with your period, joint pain, muscle pain, neck pain, back pain, stomach pain, elbow pain, and feet pain, feelings of weakness, nervousness,&nbsp; or throwing up. You may be easily angered or annoyed, (Duh!) and you may also experience a complete lack of interest in sexual intercourse. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, that about covers it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">(These side effects were taken directly from the list of side effects of Wellbutrin. Is that ironic or is that just plan hysterical???) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And that folks is your daily dose of irreverence – carry on. </div>Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-5983673666968668912014-01-23T11:52:00.003-08:002014-01-23T11:52:58.762-08:00You Will Be Changed, Kansas City<div class="headline_area"> <h1 class="entry-title">You Will Be Changed, Kansas City</h1><div class="headline_meta"><br /><span class="author vcard"><span class="fn"></span></span><abbr class="published" title="2014-01-22"> </abbr></div></div><a href="http://listentoyourmothershow.com/kansascity/2014/01/09/its-submission-time/" target="_blank">Kansas City’s call for submissions </a>has gone out and I am pounding the pavement letting people know about our show. I seem to encounter to same question over and over: <em>what is “Listen to Your Mother?”</em> And although I clearly know what it is, I have the hardest time explaining it to others. I fumble for exactly the right words. How can I possibly explain this thing- this show- these stories- this heart? How can I do it justice with my simple words?<br /> I, too, had those same questions when I first heard about it. I went to my computer and began to watch the videos, one after another, eating them up like candy. I couldn’t stop. First <a href="http://youtu.be/XLtXUiRgUns" target="_blank">Jenny Lawson’s “Judgment, You’re Soaking in It,” </a>then <a href="http://youtu.be/Y6OgKz-rGoU" target="_blank">“Our Chair” by Krystin Johnson</a> laughing because my own husband begs daily for a recliner. I watched <a href="http://youtu.be/vtYO2WyESmo" target="_blank">“The Penis Whisperer” by Marianne Walsh</a>. I watched <a href="http://youtu.be/VeRNdQJvJmM" target="_blank">“Fupa” by Laura McNeill.</a> These stories made me laugh and cry and think. These stories changed me. I’m sure to my children I must have seemed crazy. Swollen eyes and makeup-stained cheeks laughing like a lunatic. I knew I had to be a part of this. I knew I needed to.<br /> When I sent in my own story, I was on pins and needles waiting to hear back whether or not I would be chosen. Then I was chosen and met the others for the first time; I was on high waiting to hear their stories. We gathered in the director’s basement one day and read to one another. Intimately guarded and loaded with tissues, we waited. We all exposed our souls. Each story changed me. I saw myself in these thirteen other women. Each story could have been my own. There was something in each of them that I, too, owned. A thread, a commonality. It was not just being a woman, but being and having a mother. It was<em><strong> motherhood.</strong></em> Of course it was.<br /> <div class="wp-caption alignnone" id="attachment_2402" style="width: 310px;"><a href="http://listentoyourmothershow.com/kansascity/wp-content/uploads/sites/15/2014/01/Leslie-Youtube-screenshot.png"><img alt="Watch Leslie's 2013 LTYM:KC reading &quot;The Groundhog Days of Our Lives&quot;" class="size-medium wp-image-2402" height="200" src="http://listentoyourmothershow.com/kansascity/wp-content/uploads/sites/15/2014/01/Leslie-Youtube-screenshot-300x200.png" width="300" /></a><div class="wp-caption-text"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VE0Uz9H5Zls&amp;feature=share&amp;list=PL5oPQWgVdsDmNSmJS-VHwkowXDqy0jYMI&amp;index=13" target="_blank">Watch Leslie’s 2013 LTYM:KC reading “The Groundhog Days of Our Lives”</a></div></div>I don’t know if I can make you understand this bond. I don’t know if I can truly make you see how this changes you. Even those that I invited to the show last year came to see me after and with tears in their eyes thanked me and held me close. They finally understood only after having seen and heard the stories. Comments like, <em>“I never expected it to be like this,”</em> and <em>“This was so amazing. I had no idea.</em>” I got a lot of <em>“Thank you so much for sharing this with me.”</em><br /> I hope to share this with you. To pass on what I now know is sacred and beautiful and important. The STORY. I know that <a href="http://youtu.be/gxGYr5aWDAk" target="_blank">Molly Shalz reading “The Random Placement of People”</a> made me a better person, opened my eyes to my surroundings, and caused me to look for the signs. I know that <a href="http://youtu.be/aF8vgKD5o-U" target="_blank">Greta Funk’s reading “The Wondering</a>” made me hug my husband a thousand times harder after hearing it, made me love even his snoring. I know that <a href="http://youtu.be/8fdlfBhJQpc" target="_blank">Michelle Burdick reading “I Listened to All the Things She Never Said”</a> made me think about and love my own treasure trove of tools paid for with tears and wounded heart. Every night when I tuck my kids into their beds and kiss them goodnight, <a href="http://youtu.be/Ir7keo9LVSM" target="_blank">Sarah Guthrie’s “The Best Thing I Have Done”</a> rings away in my mind.<br /> I know that after we share this show with you Kansas City, <strong>you will be changed</strong>. I know that if you submit and are chosen to read <strong>you will never be the same</strong>. I know that if you come and sit in the plush pink chairs at Unity Temple and open your ears and hearts you will be forever grateful and you will never be the same.<br /> So there it is, that’s the&nbsp;show. The best I can do to make you understand what it is. So submit a story, buy a ticket, come and listen. LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER.Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-46600079604532256492013-11-12T17:53:00.001-08:002013-11-13T05:27:26.236-08:00Jesus loves me, this I know......&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Okay so yesterday was like any other day until I logged onto Facebook ( oh I love you Facebook.) To my surprise I had received a lengthy note from an old friend. My daughter has shown since she was very young a propensity for music. As young as age three she would bang away at the little xylophone and quickly tap out tunes like "Mary had a Little Lamb" and "Twinkle Twinkle." She just could hear the notes. I have never been musically inclined, so I jumped at the chance to send her to lessons. It so happened that her preschool music teacher was also a piano instructor. Like many folks the preschool I sent her to was faith based. All important fact to the larger story. She began her lessons and truly thrived. Her teacher is well- adorable in a word. I have likened her to Snow White on many occasions. She is just so radiant and pure. She exudes kindness and is heartfelt and good. It was nice to have my child being taught by and in the care of someone so kind. Through the years I have seen her family grow as has mine. She has three kids now and so do I. I have watched her become this beautiful mom. She is patient and loving with her kids and they are so happy. I was grateful to know her and so happy to see how content with life she had become. I felt like I watched her become a woman. That may seem silly but when we met she was only like 23 and just married and is now, nearing 29 and has three kids. Sadly this last year I had to make the decision to use a new piano teacher. It had nothing to do with her at all. In fact I stayed with her two years longer than I probably should have because I loved her so much. The distance was the only factor. We were making a 45 minute drive each way ever Tuesday night just for the 30 minute class. It was taking a toll on our evenings with homework being regular and taking a toll on my pocket book with gas and all. We switched to a class nearer my child's school. I kept in touch with the teacher as I truly felt sad to be leaving her. Like we had made a connection- kindreds in motherhood.<br /><br />The letter I received was from her. It was well- uncomfortable a bit for me. It was as nice as it could be and it was sort of beautiful but the more I read it the more strange I felt. It was a letter that basically said that she loved my family and I and that she wanted to share the kingdom of Heaven with us so she felt compelled to reach out and bring us home to God. She felt that God had lead her to send this letter. She said she loved my beautiful family so much that she had longed to write this letter to me for quite some time. She asked if I ever felt that all I had done for my kids was still falling short and assured me that God would take up where I had left off with them.<br /><br />It was such a nice letter yet some how it made me feel a little bit bad. It made me feel "judged."&nbsp; I am 100% positive that that was NOT the intent. I am 100% positive that she would never hurt me. But still it was there and it is what I felt. That must be acknowledged. Now why? I have read this book "The Four Agreements" buy it now... now now now.. I'll wait.. no really it's a must read. It's short and to the point. Basically one of the agreements is to understand that "this is not about me." That is hard for me in general but especially when it feels like someone is saying I am not a good mother. That always knocks the wind out of me and doubt washes over me like a flood. No like a tidal wave. So here I sit. Here I sit thinking that this woman I admired feels like my kids and I are on the express train to Hell. As always I ponder, sort, scrape, mash, peel, tear apart and reconstruct my feelings on the matter. I ask for guidance from my tribe. One friend said that anyone who has met my kids even for a minute or in this case has had the chance to spend a great deal of time with them must know how happy and how kind they are. Finn at age four even holds open doors for ladies. He is a true gentleman. Jude carries my bags and says let me help you all the time. Char is so intuitive about feelings and knows how to heal all around her. They are GOOD kids. One friend said I should be flattered. That I should know that most people want to recruit those who are not that far gone. They want to help those up who are almost there already. They dont want to drag people from the pits. Ha Ha... I still fretted. This was after all not the first time something like this had happened. Once a woman close to me (even staying in my home for a few days) told me that my family was beautiful and my husband was such a good father.. "but it was too bad that we were all going to Hell since we were not saved." It was not the first time I'd heard these words. It was like the fifth.<br /><br />In fact it made me think of a funny joke my Grandpa used to tell.<br /><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-family: Times,&quot;Times New Roman&quot;,serif;">"It was flooding. As the flood waters were rising, a man was on the roof of his house and another man in a row boat came by. The man in the row boat told him to get in and he'd save him. The man on the roof said, no, he had faith in God and would wait for God to save him. The flood waters kept rising. A man in a motor boat came by and told the man on the roof to get in because he had come to rescue him. The man on the house said no thank you. He had perfect faith in God and would wait for God to save him. The flood waters kept rising. Pretty soon they were up to the man's roof. A helicopter then came by, lowered a rope and the pilot shouted down in the man in the house to climb up the rope because the helicopter had come to rescue him. The man in the house wouldn't get in. He told the pilot that he had faith in God and would wait for God to rescue him. The flood waters kept rising and the man in the house drowned. When he got to heaven, he asked God where he went wrong. He told God that he had perfect faith in God, but God had let him drown. <br />"What more do you want from me?" asked God. "I sent you two boats and a helicopter."</span></span><br /><br /><br />So were these people sent to me as a life raft? a helicopter? a boat to save me from drowning?&nbsp; If God is so wise and so all knowing would he/she not have sent me a messenger I'd be more likely to listen to? Would he/she not have clothed them in garments I'd recognize? Make them someone who's council I'd be likely to seek?<br /><br />My friend Tracey said it to me best.. If this is like the fifth time you'd had someone say these things to you, well then you should be feeling over-joyed. (WHAT??)&nbsp; Because obviously you are good enough that they want you on their team. Yay! So I wont be picked last in the cosmic game of kickball to Heaven. Sweet.....Whew what a load off....<br /><br />I guess this is where I am and this is basically how I responded. Religion to me is private, more private than politics in fact. Some may have you believe you'd only keep it quiet if you were ashamed but in fact I keep it quiet because it's mine. It's a place in my heart that I hold sacred and you will rarely be invited there. No matter who you are. My children and my husband reside there. There we run freely together in the multitude of blessings and of love we have for each other and for this life we were given. I love this man I married and I know he was brought to me by a higher power and for a higher purpose. I love these little sprouts I birthed. I know they are from the divine source. I share with these humans the beauty of life everyday. In an average day I tell them- "I love you, and I am thankful for you" over 1000 times. I am thankful to the Holy Spirit for the gift of them. My sermons are held each day at breakfast when we talk about what's good and right, when we talk about life and history and language and travel. My sermons are held at dinner when we talk about our day and our food and what we loved and what made us sad and what lifted us up. My sermons are held at bath time, when their tiny naked bodies are flailing around in suds and being silly and giddy my choir is their laughter. My sermons are held at bedtime when I kiss foreheads and linger in the smell of their hair or when my husband and I lie awakes and talk or hold each other close and warm. This house is my church and this life I have built my temple. Any one who enters can feel this love. I know I am loved by this higher power for I look around me each and every day and I am so blessed- Would someone undeserving or bound for Hell be this happy and this filled with gratitude?<br /><br />I will face the end of my life with these people and I will not fear what comes next because this right here and now is my Heaven. <br /><br /><br />Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-60717107729827207622013-11-08T10:59:00.001-08:002013-11-08T11:02:21.467-08:00Listen to Your Mother, Excitement, and Random Thoughts..&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I was pondering the other day, as I often do, about the life and happiness. I was with my kids at an amusement park and they were so excited to be running from one ride to the next. They were seeing new sites and feeling over the moon hopped up crazy on adrenaline. I was thinking about when as an adult I had that feeling last. I know I was excited on my wedding day. I know I was excited to leave for our honeymoon. I get that butterfly feeling of possibility when I travel to a foreign country. I know on the way to the hospital to give birth I was ecstatic. But when had I felt it last? I started to be a bit jealous. Who knows when again as adults we might get that rush of new and amazing excitement, haven't we experienced so much that very little is new to us and still awe inspiring that is THRILLING? I'm not saying I'm unhappy or that my life is boring- far from it. I am simply saying that I wonder if much as a grown up makes us feel that pit of your stomach nervous excitement.<br /><br />Well, I can say with complete satisfaction that the "Listen to Your Mother 2014" show announcements made me feel that way.<br /><br />Giddy Goofy Happy Three Years Old again Excited!!<br /><br />THRILLED <br /><br />I know I have been telling anyone within earshot how great this thing is but until you actually see the show, hear these stories, FEEL the energy you will not understand. This is excitement, this is life, this is empowered funny and smart women telling the story that is life- that gave life- that sustains life, like only we can. It is beauty, pain, and overwhelming love and laughter all packed into one hour. I am so giddy to be a part of the creative team in Kansas City this year. I hope my story will make you laugh and make you love this show as much as I do!&nbsp; <br /><br />Here is a sample of what you can expect.&nbsp; This is one of my favs from the 2013 show in Chicago. <br /><h1 class="yt" id="watch-headline-title" style="text-align: center;"><span class="watch-title yt-uix-expander-head" dir="ltr" id="eow-title" title="Marianne Walsh reading &quot;The Gift of the Peni&quot;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vtYO2WyESmo&amp;list=PL5oPQWgVdsDmAh7kN3ki-xi8wJbCz5fAm">Marianne Walsh is the "Penis Whisperer"</a></span></h1><br /><br /><br />Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-32442209326622498582013-10-08T09:14:00.002-07:002013-10-08T09:25:13.710-07:00Reconciled 8===DOh this is one of those where I have no idea how to begin. My process in writing is weird and simple. Most sit with some sort of device even if it's purely paper and pencil, not me though. I am in my own head. That is where my writer lives, her hunkered down comfy cozy self. She is in there thinking, editing, reworking the whole thing until the body wants to sit and actually do the typing. I've always been this way. Roommates used to laugh at me in college. Have you started that paper yet? It's due tomorrow! I'd always have it completely written and completely perfect IN MY HEAD. Then the day it was due it's type it out. Rough drafts are for pussies.. ha ha ha (of course this is why I have so many spelling and grammar errors...) I love to write, I just dont love the actual writing.. ha ha... <br />Ever read Tommy-knockers? by Stephen King? He has that device that the writer just uses, it reads her thoughts and puts them to paper. Oh how I wish I had that. Of course then over half would need to be censored (X RATED!!) and the other half would need to be edited for content as my mind wanders like the dog on the movie "UP".... squirrel!!!!&nbsp; See I'm wandering off even now.<br /><br />The beginning....<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; I had said I wanted to write a piece about how I am not reconciled. I do accounting work as a PAYING job. In that world "reconciliation" means to make sure all the numbers add up. Everything is accounted for all the zeros and decimal points align. In my world in this head of mine it means a similar thing, but without the numbers. My image of myself does not add up. My image in the mirror and my image in my head are not the same. The me I am inside is not the same as the me I see in the mirror... Which one is right? Which one is real? I am not reconciled.... <br /><br />In writing one of the first things you learn is self-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; i.e -&nbsp; your perspective, your point of view. It can get a bit philosophical here... Freud's model of the psyche.. the ID the EGO and the SUPER EGO. There is the self as you see you, the self as others see you, and the self that you truly are. Which self is REAL? Then comes the question of what is REAL? and oh my God I dont have time for all that and my head hurts from the thought of it. Maybe I had time for that in my 20's but now in my 40's I'm too busy trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up and too worried I may have run out of time to make up my mind. Now I just know that these selves are not adding up.<br /><br />In my head I am this attractive, funny, smart, pretty (not beautiful but pretty), girl who is always on the go. The girl who is always moving, never sits still and is always up to some new feat. I am this modern ninja warrior woman who kicks butt! The girl who has breakfast lunch and dinner made, kids dropped off at school, house cleaned, laundry started, a few phone calls made to get a&nbsp; $4000 check issued to finish off the new slide on the playground , bank book balanced, and status updated all before 9AM. This is the me of my head.<br /><br />In the mirror, I am a tired, old, very over weight, fluffy, cranky, haggard.. hag. Old..hag. IN THE MIRROR that is who I am. <br /><br />Where is the disconnect? (And jeez.. am I just schizophrenic??? After reading and re-reading those thoughts I sound like I might be?)<br /><br />and then she thinks----<br /><br />(I'm sitting here talking to myself- nay- arguing with my self over whether or not I am sane. That in and of itself may answer the question....)<br /><br />ANY HOW-<br /><br />So I struggle with this day in and day out. I see my beautiful daughter growing into this woman, and I am terrified (poop your pants, hair turns white, scared straight TERRIFIED) that she will become this unaccounted for column... How do I stop that? Nail biting, stomach in knots here.. How do I stop that from happening? By the end of my stories I usually have some perspective ladies and gents but not on this one. I really mean HOW? I really dont know. I am scared for her. Scared of the mean girls, the mean comments, the mean boys she will face if her body is not "just right." I am scared it will change the beautiful little soul she is right now. I am scared she will retreat into a shell and hide if those mean words are spoken to her and I KNOW they will be. Hell it has already begun. How do I shield her from this? How do I keep her safe?<br /><br />It's not the same for boys. I dont worry about F and J this way. They will be fine. Pretty much none of a guy's self image is tied up in his reflection in the mirror. Good looking, or ugly, fat or thin, zit faced or baby faced.. a guy can still be THE GUY. The big fat guy can still get the girl, the car, the friends, the invites to the parties. He can still be popular. He can still be IN and he can still move around in our society without much of a grimace from anyone. NOT THE FAT GIRL. The fat girl wont be called for a date, she wont have a healthy relationship with a guy, she wont get asked to the prom, or have a herd of girl friends vying for her attention. She is punished day in and day out for who she is. The ugly girl too... but there is at least some small amount of sympathy for the ugly girl. She was born that way. NOT THE FAT GIRL. She must be LAZY.. a PIG.. she must stuff her face, eat bon bons while sitting on the sofa watching teen heart throb movies or soap operas. The fat girl is not just an outcast but she is actually and enemy, she is despised. She is like a virus the other girls think they might catch. They FEAR her, they fear they may become her.<br /><br />I want my daughter to grow a penis so she never has to deal with this crap..... <br /><br />(suddenly a light comes on and you were the first to witness this epiphany right here and now)<br /><br />See I said I had no solution but there it is, the answer to all the problems women face day in and day out .... I just solved em all.! GROW A PENIS. There we go.. (she says as she brushes her hands together in the air) problem solved. I'll just tell Char to grow a penis. We will skip all the self image issues of teen years, we will hop right on over the MEAN GIRL BULLSHIT she will soon be facing, she will not worry about date rape, she will finish at the top of her class and get a high paying job without worry of sexual discrimination at all, she will always get the promotion, and she will never fear it was because the boss wanted to sleep with her- and it's all accomplished by the simple task of growing a fucking penis.&nbsp; Whew- what a relief. <br /><br />Wow- okay- that is all- carry on..... anyone know a good plastic surgeon???Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-70116227144237868142013-09-17T12:55:00.005-07:002013-09-17T13:02:04.133-07:00Google that shit!!&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; So when I started this blog in 2009, I had 3 very small children. All at home, all dependent on me- no daycare, no reprieve, and NO SLEEP. Of course I was nuts! Frankly speaking maybe a bit angry, frustrated, and jaded as well. Years have passed since then (four to be exact), and my oldest two are in school and I only have the one very sweet, kind, eager to please FiFi at home now. Life certainly seems a bit more tame, evolution as it were, has made me much happier and carefree person. Don't get me wrong, our life is still a circus however it's a far more well managed and put together circus. Those days that seem impossible to get through and the balled up sobbing heap of me on the bathroom floor is maybe only a bi-monthly occurrence instead of a bi-daily occurrence.&nbsp; I may have mentioned the rotting corpse of the Leslie I once was that lives in our home smelling up the place? Well she is beginning to smell a little less like decomp and a little more like perfume. I also have more help now. My husband having read the blog may have helped slightly ( I can dream can't I?) or maybe he too has had some personal growth and has come into his own fathering vibe. He definitely seems to "get it" more.&nbsp; The kids are far more autonomous now. I only have to wipe a very occasional butt and never have to chop up anyone's food into choke proof pieces unless we are having steak for dinner.&nbsp; Ahhhhhhh- a sigh of relief.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Problems of the past have morphed into - well the problems of today that are far less difficult to manage. It is only occasionally that I feel overwhelmed. Soccer season is one of those times, and there is of course the dreaded twice yearly school project time. Uggggg. Even though I "graduated' from third grade quite some time ago, lets face facts! Those damn school projects are just not designed for your kid to do alone. They are what I like to call the "parent" homework. Dioramas, habitats, and giant poster boards taller than your kid have to be designed and mapped out. 3rd grade brings Endangered Species, and Foreign Countries, seems easy enough? For weeks at a time our dining room table is overrun by glue, letters, paper, scissors, pictures, and notes. This year's project for C was on Brazil. She was so excited to have chosen it because she'd seen a documentary once on carnival and was excited to learn more. It should have been easy enough, and that is why one calm Sunday afternoon I left her to work on the project alone and put my husband in charge of the oversight committee. For the most part his help consists of, "I dont know sweetie, why dont you Google that." That is sort of fine, she needs to at least try do most of the work on her own right? And besides, I love Google- how did we ever live without it.&nbsp; Why is the sky blue? Why did the dinosaurs die? How can you cut steel? Where is Easter Island and why is it called Easter Island? I DON'T KNOW KIDS- Google that shit. We do have an ancient dust covered set of Encyclopedia somewhere in the basement but one paragraph about Brazil does not a project make. If I'd been home I would have stood by her as she typed in the words and helped guide her on her word choice. I was not home. It was Sunday so there was any number of stupid sports shows on so my husband was otherwise inclined. If I were home I would have helped her select the right words to find what she was looking for and helped her chose which sites to actually look at. I was not home, so she was all on her own and did what most kids do. She typed in the most simple terms what she was looking for. She had already found a map, learned the topography of the land. She had already learned about their weather, their national treasures, the tourist sights to be seen. She'd learned about the major cities, and their population. She had researched the foods they eat and what interesting plants grew there. She had learned all there was about Carnivale and found at least three famous people who had come from Brazil. All that was left was to find out what people in Brazil wore and how they wore their hair. Yep, that's right. Any MOMMY who is reading this blog knows exactly where I am about to go. Why the connection did not dawn on my husband is beyond me. So that lovely Sunday afternoon my sweet 8 year old received a very in depth, very image filled graphic of what you get when you type in Brazil and HAIR on Google.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When recounting the story to me later she laughed and blushed A LOT!&nbsp; "EWWWWWW mom it was gross they showed it all!" and "Mom why do women need to shave down there??" (GREAT!!) &nbsp; Thankfully she is a smart enough child not to have added THAT to her poster board.&nbsp; I dont think third grade is ready for and X-rated foreign country project yet! My husband was more than a little embarrassed. Mainly because he will NEVER be comfortable enough to have even the slightest sex talk with my daughter. "Dad when do girl start wearing a bra?"- sent him crying to his room. "I dont know ask you mother!" was heard as he ran off to hide.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;The moral of this story? Just when I think "I got this.." Just when I think it's all getting easier and I'm feeling a bit of self confidence and pride... BIG PARENTING FAIL. Boom the universe or the internet more specially has other ideas.<br /><br />Ha Ha..... I always try to see the brighter side though, and in recounting this story to a friend of mine she one-upped me. She told me that she left her husband in charge of finding the cheer leading bloomers that go under her daughters cheer skirt. She was thinking that a nice trip to the sporting goods store would be a good father daughter outing. He on the other had wanted to make sure it was a one trip shop so he told his daughter to go and Google the nearest store and see if they have them. He told his daughter...."Just go Google DICKS.com........"<br /><br /><br />AHHHHHHH and another contender for father of the year emerges... Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-5349233804493730542013-08-21T20:11:00.001-07:002013-08-22T05:37:21.790-07:00Kaitlyn and Braedon-Confidence- and The Insignificant Day&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Uggg- Sometimes sitting down to write is like when I used to walk into a record store to buy music. You have all these albums you want then when you walk in you can't even think of one thing. I had all these posts I wanted to write but now sitting here I can't think of one of them. I need to get on a schedule where I write everyday even if it's blather because at least then the good stuff wont get lost. Okay so I'm talking to you like you are part of some sort of inner monologue in my head (PSYCHO?) but here goes. <br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp; As promised the post about Braedon and Kaitlyn. Who are they you ask? Truth be told I don't really even know but this is how it all went down. I took my fam in the last days of summer break to the lake for a nice relaxing day at the beach. It was all perfect and wonderful and totally relaxing until these teenagers showed up. They were not really obnoxious so much but I found myself glued to them like watching a train wreck. I just couldn't turn away. I kept reminiscing about my own teen years and then my mind would float off and day-dream about what Char and Jude would be like as teens.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Kaitlyn and her little friend whose name I never heard, came first. They very carefully and calculatedly picked a spot and begin laying themselves out ever so perfectly for view by the near-by life guard whom they knew from school. So much care and time went into this it was mesmerizing. I remember what it felt like to be that girl who tried so hard to get that boys attention. Kaitlyn was sort of built like I was in high school although to her credit she had much more self confidence than I had then. Already pretty tan from the summer of beaching it, and long dark hair that she literally flipped about 2000 times while arranging herself neatly on her towel and applying oil or lotion of some kind. She was "curvy"- "built"-"thick" as some might put it. Not fat at all in my opinion. She was bigger than the other very waif-ish girl. She had big boobs, and a big but. This is what I looked like in school but back then I thought I was fat. Hid behind my clothes instead of wearing them. Hated my own body each time I glimpsed it in the mirror and would NEVER have worn a bikini like Kaitlyn was, or shown myself so confidently on the beach like she was. That is why I started looking at her in the first place. I felt pride in her for not being self loathing, and a tiny bit of jealousy for having confidence in HIGH SCHOOL for goodness sakes. Then from behind us came a very loud very large group of testosterone filled teen boys. About 12 of them to be sure. They were all sweaty and goofy and all of them had one thing in common. They thought they were totally cool. Obviously the cool kids,obviously the varsity team of something. They knew Kaitlyn and waif girl.They knew them well. The cool kids group. One boy stood out from the others. Not because he was cuter, or in any way superior but there was just something about him. The other boys kept calling his name. Braedon this and Brady that.. Hey over here Brady, Hey wanna play volleyball? All the guys wanted to be him or be his friend and Kaitlyn wanted to date him. It was obvious from the hair flipping. I just could not look away from this group. Frumpy old lady gawking on. It was shameful and I felt all pervy but, still I could not look away. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I found myself wondering why they so held on to my attention. In part it was a desperate feeling of my own fleeting youth. I don't feel OLD yet but way past this stage for sure and in a way, in that moment, wanting it back. Wanting to be that young again and have my whole life in front of me. Wanting to be that naive. But mostly it was this intangible need to know why they were so confident and how in the hell do I instill that in my own kids? I sure as heck did not have it as a teen. I don't want Charley to hate her body and I don't want Jude or Finn to be that guy always hoping Brady will play catch with him. I want them to BE Braedon and Kaitlyn. Is that vain? I am not so much caught up in that they will be sought after and "popular" but that they will be looked up to for the right things. Confidence, Poise, Kindness, and Loyalty- topping the list.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; When my husband plopped down beside me he could clearly see I was in a far off place with my thoughts. He asked and instantly I began to tell him about this one.. very small very insignificant day that&nbsp; I went swimming. It was at a pool in an apartment complex where a friend lived. My mom and I went. I was wearing a new bikini I had bought with my step mom. It was cool, at least I thought so. It was black on bottom and black and white on top. I was tan and I had long blond highlighted hair. I was nervous, but I felt good, felt like I looked good and felt somewhat comfortable in my own skin. I think I was 15 maybe? A boy I had known since the fifth grade and whom I had a severe crush on came up to me. I had no idea he was working there part time as a pool guy. He sat down on the edge of the pool next to me. We were talking and laughing, we had been friends a while. I felt good, I was flipping my own hair I am sure. I was Kaitlyn. That moment was fleeting and would be the last time I ever wore a bikini and the last time I ever felt like that again. I looked over at my mother and she made a gesture. At first I had no idea what she was saying. I was leaning against the wall and had my elbows propped back on the wall and feet floating out. Trying to be coy, trying to impress Jason in anyway I could. She was motioning to me that I should not lean back like that as it made my stomach look fat all pushed out that way. She came over to tell me since I did not understand her sign language. She whispered it to me. I remember feeling like I'd been stung by 10,000 bees. Hot and embarrassed. I wanted to die. I mostly wanted out of the bikini. I put on my t-shirt and sat out on a lounge chair until it was time to leave. I never wore it again. It became a symbol to be of my own self loathing. One insignificant day, one tiny remark that I am sure was never meant to inflict the kind of damage that it did.&nbsp; No one had ever told Kaitlyn she looked "thick" in that suit she had on. She looked so cute to me. She looked happy and she looked confident. She loved herself and truthfully that made me a bit jealous.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Everyday I wonder if something I might say to one of my kids might be the equivalent of this "bikini comment". Everyday I ask myself if this one seemingly insignificant thing I said to them might be the thing that makes them feel less than the spectacular and beautiful beings they are. I'd like to tell you by the end of this post that I have the answer and that I know the right thing to do to make it all turn out well for them in the end. I can't. because I dont know. I struggle everyday on these things and sometimes am taken aback at the weight my words carry.<br /><br />&nbsp;Mother= confidence.<br /><br />&nbsp;Staggering math. <br /><br />or maybe Mother = complete self loathing.....<br /><br />What goes into making a Kaitlyn and a Braedon? Lots of hugs and kisses, lots of speeches about self worth? I fear it's some of that but more the example I set in how I treat myself. I wish I was Kaitlyn. So confident, so flirtly, so young, so naive. Instead I am me. Jaded a bit, getting older, but hoping beyond all hope I can muster enough confidence in my own mothering skills to teach my kids to love themselves and hoping to get back to where I love ME a little more.<br /><br />ummmmm... and no that does not mean I'll be wearing a bikini any time soon.&nbsp; Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-16007308792224180742013-07-24T21:19:00.000-07:002013-07-24T21:20:46.541-07:00The summer of our contentment... uhhhh and why I have not posted in a while..&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Aside form the usual bullshit life has to offer (two vehicle replacements due to major repair, a leaking hot water heater, a new washing machine, and two cavities, and a stray cat caught in a tree all&nbsp; in the span of a two month period) this has been truly one of the best summers I can remember. Don't laugh I am totally serious.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; If you know me you'd know I am all about gratitude on any given day. Aside from looking these problems square in the eye and saying, "Ehhhh you wont win," I have been truly HAPPY. I caught myself thinking it the other day and almost freaked. When was the last time I felt that. I felt "content"? That is the best word I can use to describe it. Not ecstatic, not joyous,&nbsp; not elated- but content. Which to me is WAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYY better. That word lends itself toward a peaceful calm happy that sort of washes over and coats your soul. Content is like floating.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; During the school year I allow myself to get so caught up, wrapped up in the kids lives. Their homework is my homework, their project is my project. I room parent in at least two rooms, team up to deliver at least one sometimes three art projects for the big school fundraiser, collect donations for the classroom baskets, attend every PA meeting, plan teacher gifts, plan things like field days and picnics and school halloween parties, coordinate snack schedules, make sack lunches everyday and drive to pick up and drop off each kid at their respective schools. I am on the Board of Directors at the school as well and we are currently in the middle of creating a three year strategic plan. I volunteer at Harvesters, and recently engaged in speaking at a live performance of "Listen to Your Mother." I blog, I tweet, Instagram, and FB galore. ( oh and I have a full time job did I mention? ) My husband says he never sees me. Which in all reality is pretty close to true. These three babies are my life and when I say that I mean it to my core. I make sure each and every aspect of their lives is as perfect as I can possibly make it. I'm that mom you hate. Oh except that I'm overweight and usually look like a haggard old mess, with a stain and a hole in my clothes somewhere.... so you hate me less than the skinny mom that rocks the makeup and hair to parent pick up. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But this summer- boom- I decided to halt it all. I can't halt the Board of Directors things but they are minimal over the summer. Everything else has completely stopped. I decided on day one to simply ask my kids what they think would be fun to do for the summer. Not the token "Summer Bucket List" I've heard tossed around. Just a simple what do you all want to do today? Not here is what we are doing but what do YOU think would be fun? Mostly I found what they said -SHOCKING- "Sleep in and cuddle you mom." Finn even said in his little guy voice.. "I wish dad did not have a job so he could be with us all day too." So that is what we have done. No running, no appointments, no early to bed and rise, no schedules, no yelling, tyrant me who needs to be somewhere at a certain time with a thousand things in tow. Ahhhhh. it's nice. Just us. Just to be a family. Why did I think all that other stuff was so important?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; So each day I am greeted with kisses instead of alarm clocks and cuddles instead of sack lunches and book bags. Now I know it can't always be this way. I know we have to go to school and be on time. I know we need to do homework and stay on task, but will my kids fall apart if I dont plan each of their holiday parties or bake something for each event, or spearhead the fund raising efforts? All of it pales in comparison to the freckled, sun kissed, very relaxed, adoring faces of my three babies. This is what contentment feels like. Home, love, calm, peace, and my babies in my arms.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">&nbsp;We are floating. </div>Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-40847540409825372802013-06-20T08:44:00.000-07:002013-06-20T08:48:57.529-07:00Writer's Block, Sentiment, and Sangria<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<b>Can't write- have summer writer's block. I know I know it's a cheat to say but it's totally true. My brain is absorbed elsewhere with other things. The number one thing being how my kids are growing and how I feel like the time is slipping away from me. So two things will happen here. The first is that I will spend that time this summer with them cherishing every little word they say and every little hilarious thing they do. The second is that I will drink. ha ha ha... really I will. Heavily- to ease the pain and to slow my roll. Ha- I need to chill a little I know on the sentimentality of it all. At 9, 7, and 4 I still have them and I just need to enjoy the now. J's cleaning up the fort mess of a room he made, Fi's following his every move and hanging on his every word. C's designing jewelry for her Yia Yia. My kids are awesome.&nbsp;</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In other news my job stopped paying me for the food blog which is sort of fine. But now what to do with it? So since I'm dismantling it and since I need a drink and since I can't write, I'm cheating. I'm going to take a few of those posts and put them here. Just the ones I wrote about my own recipes and my own food feelings. So sue me if you are bored with it but I think every mommy needs a sangria recipe. So here you go! Eat, DRINK, and enjoy your summer of kids moms. I am sure going to try. </span></b><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Gin and tonic’s are my usual fall back summer drink of choice but a few years back, when we traveled to Spain I got a little bit “hooked” on Sangria. Light crisp and slightly fruity if it’s done right, red or white, it can be the most easy to drink summer cocktail out there. I have to take a min to add a note here. Rick and I found a tree at the top of the "mountain" in San Sebastian Spain. We carved our initials into it's trunk. We got wasted on blush wine and ate cheese and bread. It was one of the greatest days of my life. So this recipe brings me to summer, to love, and to Spain. I hope you love it as much as I do! Most people think that it’s as simple as adding some chopped fruit to a glass of iced wine. They’d be wrong. There is a trick, and a secret ingredient that most miss. Without it, it’s a total miss. Bet you can’t guess? </span></b><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">I’ll wait…</span></b><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">Brandy! Who knew? And it really can’t just be any old Brandy. It needs to be something elegant, sophisticated, and fresh. Cardenal Mendoza Solera comes with my highest recommendations. Slightly dark fruit waves rush over crisp orange notes, giving a glass of sangria exactly the perfect flavor. Added to a light red that is not to acidic, like a Rioja. Hailing from North Central Spain this wine is primarily made from the Tempranillo grape. &nbsp;Marques de Caceres is my brand of choice because it’s usually very inexpensive. No sense in spending a lot of money on a wine when you should be saving those extra pennies for the Brandy. Finally a slight hint of fruit juice is needed. You can really go with just about anything here; orange or pineapple,&nbsp; but I prefer apricot. I know it’s unusual but I think it makes the drink. I have seen recipes that add sugar. I do not. I think the apricot juice does that for me. A splash of 7-up and then diced apples and sliced oranges. An additional trick I use is to freeze grapes and then use them instead of ice cubes. It leaves less chance of a watered down beverage. Try this with red or white, you can even use a rose. The specific measurements are listed below. I dare you to find a better recipe anywhere! </span></b><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><ul><li><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">1 Bottle of Rioja</span></li><li><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">1 Apple cut into wedges </span></li><li><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">1 Orange cut into thin slices</span></li><li><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">1 Cup frozen grapes red or white</span></li><li><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">Splash of apricot juice </span></li><li><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">3 Shots of Brandy</span></li><li><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">2 cups 7-Up &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;</span></li></ul><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">&nbsp; P.S.- I also was on the crew that helped open La Bodega here in KC. If you love their Sangria.. pssssst...lean in close now...... this is pretty much it. I think I remember distinctly going through about 12 recipes before we settled on this one. Oh what a night that was.... </span></b><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; </span></b><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: Batang;"></span></div><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]-->Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-5347929490020902542013-05-17T21:02:00.002-07:002013-05-17T21:02:27.616-07:00Mother is God in the eyes of the child….<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I am nothing if not a horror movie addict. Oh not the kind that really gets into them and watches them like a cult follower. I’m the ridiculous kind that has to turn down the volume at times, watch with a friend and have all the lights on. Addicted because I like to run up the basement stairs for fear my ankles will be grabbed by the monster lying under them or jump three feet to the bed so no hands swipe out from underneath it! That kind. So if you are too then you know where that line comes from. Silent Hill. (The first one not the dumb second one.) But that line… oh that line still haunts me, and not for the right reasons. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s true. Mommy can do no wrong in the eyes of the child. Not until that child grows up that is. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My daughter stayed home with me yesterday and I held her tight. Told her stories of her babyhood and giggled like girls. We had fun. She must have said to me that I was the best mommy ever like 30 times. It weighed on me. Mommy is God in the eyes of the child. It weighed heavily on me. I am my own worst critic and so I am always evaluating my own actions. This one sweet phrase from my baby girl sent my brain into a tornado like spin. Every thing I’ve yelled, every criticism I’d given, every time I’d shrugged away a hug while washing the dishes or loading the dryer just piled up on my soul. If you are a mother you know what I am saying because no matter how small your sin, you remember it. I carry mine with me. I think of them often and I live in almost fear of them sometimes. Fear that my kids will be taken from me for these sins. If you don’t appreciate what you have it will be gone. While they are small this is my fear. Fear that I can not protect them from every evil there is or from to world, and fear that my little moments of flaw will add up to one big universal IOU. Will they be taken from me if I do not relish every last moment with them as if it were the last. Take nothing for granted. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">If I manage to make it past their youthful years into adulthood will they then come to collect on my bad debts? Will they languish over those shrugged off hugs or moments of yelling anger?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Will that be what they remember? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Every moment I ask myself these questions. I wonder if I am making mistakes and if they are the big kind that one can hardly pay for in one lifetime. Who has the answers? Guilt is the hairshirt I wear. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-89726575676076578492013-05-15T12:23:00.000-07:002013-05-15T12:23:21.267-07:00The Groundhog Days of Our Lives- as read aloud at LTYM 2013 KC<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Once heard that the average toddler hears the word “no” over 200 times in one day. Yeah well, who do you think is saying it? Remember that movie with Bill Murray where he wakes up and keeps having the same day over and over? Of course you do, if you are a mother, it is the story of your life! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">Here are just a few of the things I repeat daily; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">“I don’t know where your (insert random object here) is. I was not the one who had it last.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">“Stop hitting your brother.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">“Stop picking your nose.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">“Hold my hand in the parking lot. Do you want to get hit by a car?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">“You have to taste it before you say you hate it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>“Your coat does not go one the floor.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">“Eat your dinner before you can have any candy.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">“NO! NO! NO!” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>“Stop sticking things in the outlets! While you’re at it stop sticking things in your nose too.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>“That is not a toy.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>“Please get down from there.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">“The word your looking for is WON’T not CAN’T. You CAN do it but you just won’t.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">“Poop, Butt, Fart, Turd and all poop related words are off limits!” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">“Please be quiet.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>“Apologize to your sister.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">“Stop hitting!” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>“Pick up your room.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">“You need a time out.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">“Get off of the ground this is a public restroom!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">And those are just the things I say to my husband.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">No really… I could sing them like a deranged Christmas carol. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">Three “Turn it downs.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Two “Start listenings.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">And a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>“Do you have any sense?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>I say the same things day in and day out. At some point in time one would think they would get as tired of hearing them as I do of saying them. You would think they might just do what it is I was asking. Instead, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>I speak and I think all they must hear is “WA WA WA WAH WA WAH.” At what point did I become Charlie Brown’s teacher? Do they think I like to sound like this?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Honestly, it only contributes to my tired and listless appearance. The grey hairs are multiplying by the minute, the wrinkles invading.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>My youthful glow is slipping away like sands through the hour glass. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">Sometimes it’s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>ALL<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>sooooo<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>mundane. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">It amazes me what actually excites me these days. A trip to the grocery store alone is a treat! Warm food is nice.. oh how I have missed warm food. A full chapter in a book read is great. OOOOO OOOOO how about shaving <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>both legs in the same shower? Yes... that’s a good one… </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Today is an excellent example; my six year old came home and put his coat on the hook instead of the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I felt like a choir was signing hallelujah! My front room somehow seemed enlightened. The clouds in the sky suddenly parted and angels flitted about is little head. Had I actually finally been heard? I have only been saying, “Please don’t leave your coat on the ground,” for two years, three days, 16 hours, 23 minutes, and 15 seconds now. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">Everyday it is the same thing. My own mother got mad at me the other day and said. “He’s only six. You don’t have to be so snipity with him.” Yes mom he’s only but he can play Vivaldi’s Four Seasons on the violin so I think picking up his coat should be a no brainer??</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">I mean after all this IS a simple little task that his mothers’ sanity may hinge upon right?? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">I guess it’s a question for the afterlife. Right up there with why the husband won’t actually look for something before coming to you and saying he can’t find it anywhere! Where did the other sock go, and what is the meaning of life? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">It seems I remember that I wanted nothing more in my twenties than to be married and have kids. Used to wish upon a star in fact. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Oh! Wish I may wish I might have this wish I wish tonite…. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">“Oh please give me a handsome loving and devoted husband and lots of beautiful obedient babies?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>And now I want nothing more than to be swept away in a leer jet to Paris. It is no wonder women get hooked on soap operas and romance novels. They need to escape from the mundane, these groundhog days of their lives. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">I guess I somehow thought it would be different. Thought it would be more glamorous? Didn’t June Cleaver seem a little more happy? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">I definitely thought it would be easier! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">I completely thought there would be less POOP. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">WHO KNEW ? there would be so many bodily fluids involved in this job called motherhood??</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">I sometimes wonder if it’s only me? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">But don’t we all go to our friend’s houses and see that gleaming picture above their mantles (you know the one you all have it!-----, husband, wife, darling children, picket fence, family dog.) I have to remind myself here and now, that it’s only a frozen moment in time when for the one split second of that camera shutter all was right in that mommies <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>world. A brief hiccup in time where everyone was quiet and everything was still. </span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">The<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>picture <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>perfect <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span>family.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>But remember this folks… no one takes pictures at a funeral. By that I simply mean…We all want to remember the good, the beautiful, that perfect life looking back from the gleaming photo above your fireplace. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">But sometimes that just isn’t REAL! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">Not what LIFE is really like at all... </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">That smiling mommy on the mantle! She was probably having a groundhog day of her own. She had just wiped her son’s nose with his sister’s “back up panties” because that is all she could find in her purse, then she yelled through gritted teeth, “Smile for the camera. Stop hitting your sister. Quit picking your nose. Where did that stain come from, you’ve only had this shirt in for two minutes?” Her armpits were probably sweat stained, her hair probably glued in place, someone probably has to use the potty, the kids probably had to be threatened within inches of their little lives- </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">And oh and by the way her husband just farted.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BjgngM5XVc0/UZPgbzm6ZKI/AAAAAAAAAL8/YcO-4todE7Y/s1600/IMG_7756.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BjgngM5XVc0/UZPgbzm6ZKI/AAAAAAAAAL8/YcO-4todE7Y/s320/IMG_7756.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">&nbsp;Amazing photo by Karen Ledford</span></div>Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2274680913008538638.post-20179158366311296132013-05-07T07:19:00.002-07:002013-05-07T07:23:50.705-07:00Teaching my kids what they are worth&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; How does a mom put a value on what we consider priceless? A tough question... but if left unanswered is maybe the most dangerous thing in the world. My job as a mother first and foremost is to teach my children that they have worth. That they are worthy and that they are therefore empowered and should feel confident. These things have been rolling around in my head. This job, raising kids, is so multi-faceted and so enormous. I feel like as of late, every time I turn on my tele or my radio I hear of a woman or a child being abused, killed, kidnapped, raped or tortured. I am tired. Tired of this.. of hearing this. If we all taught our kids their worth would this happen? If we taught even our boys this lesson would this happen? <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A friend posted <a href="http://thinkprogress.org/health/2013/05/06/1967591/elizabeth-smart-abstinence-ed/?mobile=nc">this article about Elizabeth Smart</a>. It opened my eyes. We are teaching our girls and our boys that a woman's worth lies in her -vagina -in her purity- in her looks ? None of these things are correct! And it sickens me to think of this. To hear that children of any religion or in any sex "education" (purposefully put in quotation marks) <a href="http://www.religiondispatches.org/dispatches/joannabrooks/7101/traditional_mormon_sexual_purity_lesson_contributed_to_captivity__elizabeth_smart_tells_university_audience/">are being given examples </a>of a doughnut or a cupcake being passed around the room and then asking them if now they want to eat it as everyone as touched it. Disgusting analogies and I'd like to point out that they are intentionally AIMED at women! My nine year old daughter will never be taught that when she chooses to have sex at the appropriate age for her that it will be to gain love and or respect. I have explained in great detail to my then 17 now 19 year old step daughter that when she does have sex that it should be because SHE chooses to. She should not do it with the hopes it will gain her anything. I did not lie and say it was magical or wonderful or powerful. I told the TRUTH. I said at 17 you will feel pain, embarrassment, uncomfortable almost shame. It will not feel "good" AT ALL the first time. Not for a girl. It is messy and at 17 you can not understand all the emotions you will feel or sort through them or cope with them so I asked her to promise me these things. That she would do it because SHE wanted to. Not because she was "talked into it" by a boy who WOULD feel good and who would get a release from it, who would not be uncomfortable or embarrassed most likely. I asked her to use precautions. I asked her to come to me and talk openly if she wanted to. I told her she would not be judged. I also explained that until she was comfortable in her own body and understood how it worked that she would most likely not have sex in a pleasurable way. I told her for me that was not until I was like 25! ha ha.. But I told the TRUTH.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I will do that for my sons when the time comes. Tell them the truth. I will tell them that when a girls says<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/04/25/you-deserve-rape-sign-brother-dean_n_3154980.html"> NO it means fucking NO</a>! ( by this mans rationale I could postulate that he deserves the electric chair) It's not a game. I will tell them that when they have sex it should be because THEY want to. Not their friends, not a girl. That their choices will effect them FOREVER. I will tell them that sperm once it enters a woman's uterus can create life. DUH! and that unless they are prepared to care for, support, and own up to the responsibility that that life brings they need to take precautions. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I WILL NOT TEACH THEM ABSTINENCE!! I am not so old that I do not remember CLEARLY the feelings I had as a teen and the urges. To try to talk them out of what FEELS natural to them would be just plain stupid and fruitless. But I will arm them with facts and&nbsp; more importantly I will teach them that I love them. That they are worthy of my love. They should be confident that I will love them NO MATTER WHAT. They will be taught that the value they place on THEMSELVES is the most important value of all. That this body is merely a shell and that silly terms and body parts like penises and vaginas are of no value but that what is inside of us- our beings, our souls- has no price tag and can not be replaced. Giving away that soul, allowing someone to hurt or damage it, allowing someones actions or words to alter it is the only sin here. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I will teach them their own self worth and I BELIEVE with all of my soul that that lesson alone will be the one that shapes all of their decisions and not just the ones about sex. It will teach them to live the most joyous, successful and fulfilled&nbsp; life that is possible. ( or at least I will die trying...)Leslie Lambeth-Kohlmeyerhttps://plus.google.com/101994929762286998101noreply@blogger.com0